The Program
by toestastegood
Summary: [CharliexSawyer, Slash] Sawyer's day had been going pretty well right until a Bruce Lee wannabe saved his life then turned it upside down. [AU]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Written for the auabc challenge on LiveJournal.

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**Cyberpunk**

_Part One_

Sawyer was impatient. That was a fault, really. It was a sun-filled day; the park he was in was painted with thousands of colours – red and yellow flowers, freshly cut green grass, a blue paddling pool packed with screaming kids, a sunny clump of pine trees offering shade behind them. Beautiful women walked around, with their short little skirts and their low-cut tops. The sun really did bring out the best in people, especially when that 'best' included tanned and pert skin.

The day was peaceful and therefore Sawyer should have been too. With the sun hot like this, he should have been able to lean back and relax. He had the 'leaning back' done perfectly – he was lying on the grass in the park, having to squint his eyes into the sunlight. But 'relaxing' would be an impossible task, seeing as he was stuck working.

He'd been on this job for a _long _time – way too long, if he was honest. Jessica, with her toothy grin and long blonde hair, was proving to be difficult to crack. Most women melted the second he showed off his dimples. Jessica was a different brand of woman altogether. She didn't want a fling; she wasn't just interested in sex (although, Sawyer knew the signs to look for and she'd definitely been checking him out at every opportunity); she wanted romance, with red roses and sweeping gestures. Hell, she probably wanted a damn proposal.

Now, Sawyer could do all that, minus the proposal. He'd worked hard to make her fall for him, make her fall in love with him. It was working, but it was just working too slowly. He'd been here for over a month already and this was all the progress he'd made: a picnic in the park.

Not even by moonlight, or candlelight, or something more impressive like that. Just a regular picnic in the sun and he'd already had to try and squish a line of ants. He hated bugs.

"Roy's thinking of taking a weekend away again," Jessica said, in a distant tone of voice. Sawyer glanced towards her, but she wasn't looking at him. She was watching the clump of kids in the distance, kicking a ball between them. "If you're not doing anything, you could come back to my house. I could give you a tour?"

Al_right_. Now that was progress. He didn't usually like to go back to their homes – it was too easy to get caught out and blow the job like that – but in this case he'd make an exception. If he didn't jump on this, he probably wouldn't get another chance for a month or so. He needed to get his hand on that cash. It wasn't that much, but he'd worked too hard to let it go – and he had debts piling up.

"Well, baby, I definitely can't turn down an invitation like that, can I?"

Her smile widened, all teeth and gums, and he shifted so that he was sitting instead of lying down. He brushed his hand down her arm, felt her shiver, and was about to kiss her bare shoulder when he heard the screams. Loud screams, real screams, not the happy shrieks of the children that had been sounding all afternoon.

His hand snapped away from Jessica's arm as he forgot her existence. He looked up, scanning the park and trying to work out what the hell it was that was happening in front of him.

The first thing that came to mind to explain what he saw was 'movement'. Flashes of it everywhere, with people running in all directions, arms flailing. The ducks that _had _been floating idly on the pond now flapped and ran in every direction, an epicentre of chaos. Two dogs bounded around barking, yapping, growling. The movement rippled out, out, out, until even Jessica joined in and scurried to her feet. A football soared over their heads.

Another scream pierced the air, but in between all this chaos it was hard to tell what had started it. As Sawyer hustled Jessica towards the relative safety of the trees behind them, he kept a look out until he found it.

There.

Four figures, all identical, moved through the masses, shoving at or chucking aside anything or anyone in their way. They moved fluidly, gracefully, but they weren't human. They couldn't be human. There was no emotion of their faces, they showed no clear signs of gender. They were just blank inside their neat black clothes. But that wasn't what separated them, wasn't what made them _other_. Their strength did that.

A park bench, made from varnished wood and sturdy metal, cracked and broke in two as one of them walked right into it. No pain registered on the figure's face; they just kept walking. Kept walking right towards Sawyer and Jessica.

"Aw, shit," Sawyer muttered as he noticed that he didn't have a clue who these people were or how they could walk through wood like it didn't exist, but he'd figure it out later. In the meantime, he was going to focus on his own survival. That was, and always would be, _the _most important thing to him.

"Come on, sweetheart," he said to Jessica, taking her hand; freakishly strong people coming towards him or not, he still had a con to complete and money to collect. He wasn't going to fluff it just because of some weird incident in a park.

He tugged at her hand, creeping through the pine trees, over the soil and out the other side, knowing that they'd be able to scale the painted fence and get out of here. Let the police deal with it, right? He glanced behind him at Jess – he could also see that the figures hadn't followed them into the woods. "Jess? Are you alright?" Yeah, that was good, acting all concerned for her well-being. She'd lap that up.

But she muffled a squeak and dropped his hand and gasped his name and he _knew, _he just knew, before he turned around, that those creeps were standing right in front of him, and that he was about to get so very hurt.

He started to turn, tensing and getting ready to throw a punch. Before he could, a hand grabbed his neck. He was lifted up like that before he could even form a fist. The grip around his neck was tight and constricting – strong fingers and biceps that seemed to be made of steel. Green eyes stared at him without care.

He kicked out, waggling his legs while his hands clawed at the grip around his neck because screw _this_. His throat hurt and he didn't know who these people were – he assumed that they were connected to those guys he owed – but screw them too. He wished he had a gun on him, but he hadn't worn it today; he hadn't wanted to scare Jess.

Now she was screaming, loudly. He distantly heard footsteps as she ran off. _Perfect,_ he thought while gasping for air that just wouldn't come, _just perfect_. His movements were starting to slow, as his limbs were deprived of the oxygen they needed. He managed to score a kick against the being's leg, but there was no wince, no flinch, not even a blink. He scraped his nails, short as they were, along the back of the hand holding him. It didn't get a reaction. Fuck. Was he going to die here? Like this?

"Let him go, mate," a British voice ordered, but the hand around his neck just tightened substantially; it felt like his throat was about to collapse under the strain. He could feel his hand shaking but it was starting to go numb, as his vision started to fade. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, da—

_Thump_.

He groaned as he hit the ground, but then oxygen flooded his lungs; he welcomed it gladly, like an old and long-lost friend, as he lay in a heap, gasping for breath. His throat hurt and burned with every gasp, but who cared? There was _air, _and there was no one crushing his throat.

But there had been, which made his eyes snap open, already glaring. He needed to get back at the person that had just tried to kill him. He was fairly big on revenge. The artificial green of the grass seemed to burn his eyes, but once his vision cleared he could see exactly what was going on.

All four of those black clothed figures, identical with their black hair slicked back, were moving viciously, grouped in a loose circle. In the centre of the four of them was the male that made the entire scene look _extremely _bizarre; a short blonde guy, with dark jeans that clung to his legs and a black t-shirt that showed off a tattoo over his bicep. It was a surprise that he could move in clothes like that, but he definitely could.

His body twisted, turned, struck out at the four figures surrounding him. Whatever he was doing, it was more effective than Sawyer's kicks had been, than an entire fucking _bench _had been. One kick to the chest from him, and one of the figures fell stumbling onto the ground.

The man didn't stop there, just kept going in a whirlwind of desperate violence. He seemed to defy gravity, delivering kicks to the head with what looked like no effort at all. Sawyer would've ran forwards to join in – he wasn't one to back away from a fight, especially not against someone that had wronged him – but this seemed a little too professional and a lot too choreographed for him. He hadn't watched enough Bruce Lee movies to be able to join in. He got to his feet anyway, just in case.

Didn't look like he was going to be needed, until he winced in sympathy as the blonde took a hit to the face. A slapping sound rang out. Sawyer took a step forwards, unsure what to do. It'd come to him. Running forwards, he grabbed the figure's arm, stopping them from throwing another punch.

It seemed like a great plan – for about two seconds, until there was an open-palmed hit to his chest and he was lifted off his feet again, sailing right through the air as if he weighed nothing at all. He kept going and going, until his back slammed into the jagged spines of the pine trees. With an 'oof', he collapsed onto the ground.

The Brit swore loudly, and looked up at the sky. "Help would _really _be appreciated right now, Mike," he yelled, and Sawyer didn't even have time to wonder what drugs this guy was on (and where he could get some) before a small black stick appeared from nowhere in the stranger's hand. "Thanks!" he yelled up again, before starting to run forwards.

He didn't stop as one of the figures reared up in front of him; it was tying to block him off as the other three regrouped and ganged up on Sawyer. Sawyer knew that he needed to recover and get up and get out of here, but his back _hurt _from slamming into the tree like that so he didn't think that he could move at all, not yet. Unfortunately, he doubted if those three would be willing to give him a time out.

He attempted to stand up, and felt a pain rip through him, from his neck speeding down to the base of his spine. But he needed to get over it, move through it, something like that, because there were three wannabe ninjas approaching, and the Bruce Lee-loving blonde was about to be extremely held up.

Or not.

The figure that had been about to intercept him flickered and disappeared, as if it had never been anything more than a hologram. Sawyer had been thrown around like a rag doll by that damn thing. He _knew _it was real, knew it was substantial.

But it disappeared and the blonde running towards him didn't have to even pause for half a second – he drew his fist back, from where he'd evidently punched the man who'd just disappeared.

Sawyer realised a split-second too late that he'd been paying too much attention to disappearing men and running rescuers, especially when there were the remaining three figures surrounding him, who were apparently keen to cause him some damage. Pain exploded his ribs as a black boot kicked him there. He groaned and rolled on his side, convinced that something had to be broken, but there was no look of satisfaction on the being's face; there's was absolutely nothing.

Another kick, this time to his stomach – it felt worse than the time he'd got food poisoning from eating some dodgy shrimp. He'd been beaten before, but this was something else entirely.

They were just going in for a third kick, the three identical figures surrounding them, when the one in the middle flickered and disappeared. The small guy stood in his place, his face tight and focused. His arm moved to the left, moved the right, so quickly that Sawyer only saw a blur.

The figures had a chance to look down, to see the black stick stabbed into their chest, before they too flickered and vanished. All that was left was Sawyer on the floor, gasping, and the blonde that had rescued him, who was currently looked around fiercely to check the area.

Apparently, he found it clear because the dangerous look on his face faded to wide-eyed concern; he seemed harmless, like a ball of fluff, as he crouched down in front of Sawyer. The black stick in his hand was still gripped tightly, knuckles white around it.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, and his voice trembled. He reached his free hand out towards Sawyer's neck.

Sawyer batted him away. He wasn't dumb; he knew what those hands could do. "I just got throttled by a clone and had to be rescued by the goddamn Karate Kid. Yeah, I'm hurt." It was agony to even speak, but he smiled anyway.

No returning smile, no scowl, just a worried frown and an upset twitch that Sawyer almost didn't see. "Mike?" he called up at the sky again, before he looked back down at Sawyer. "I'm Charlie, by the way." He looked like he was fighting back tears; his voice sounded tight. "Not 'the Karate Kid'."

"Well, that's just swell now, but—Hey, what're you doing with that thing?" He edged back painfully as Charlie suddenly reached up with his disappearing-stick to Sawyer's neck. Oh, hell no. Sawyer liked his neck; it was a good place to store hickies. He'd rather that it didn't disappear.

Charlie swallowed and pulled his hand back, displaying the stick to Sawyer. It had, at some point in the last few seconds, changed from black to white in colour; close up, he could see a glass display panel on the side, a few buttons all over it, and a metal part sticking out the top. It looked like a strangely designed MP3 player.

Charlie lowered it again, looking hopeful. "It'll fix your neck, I promise. Your back too. And your ribs, 'cause I think I heard a snap." Fuck, how'd he hear _that _over all the damn noise? "And broken ribs hurt like hell. I'm surprised even you're up to bitching at me right now, Sawyer."

While Sawyer _had _been relaxing into the worried chatter, the use of his name made him straighten up again. "How'd you know my name?"

Charlie winced and seemed to realise his mistake, and immediately started to try and explain it away. "Look, mate, it's-"

"Shut up." Even if Sawyer had asked for an explanation, he didn't want one. "Get away from me." Charlie shook his head slowly, so Sawyer picked up a pine cone and threw it at him, as hard as he could. It bounced uselessly off of Charlie's chest. "Get _away _from me."

By now, there were sirens wailing ever closer and the coloured lights flashing around the park, dying the green grass alternately blue and red. Normally, Sawyer hated the cops. Right now, he loved them and would even consider signing on as a police officer, because their appearance made Charlie look up, look around, and swear.

Then he looked back to Sawyer, smiling sympathetically. Seeing as sympathy meant pity, Sawyer wasn't a fan of that particular smile. "Take care of yourself, yeah?" Charlie asked tenderly.

Before Sawyer could think of how the hell to respond to _that_, the extremely solid man in front of him flickered too, and blinked into nothing. Staring at blank space, Sawyer couldn't answer when the police appeared and started asking questions about what had happened.

* * *

Charlie blinked his eyes and opened them. With everything tinged blue at first, his hands fumbled up to the visor over his eyes. The drab surround of their hide-out quickly replaced the multi-coloured wonder of the park; a grey cement floor instead of soft turf, low-watt electric lighting instead of the bright sun, the smell of unshowered bodies instead of the fresh park air. It should have been disappointing to come home to this, but he was just so glad to be back.

He took his feet out of the black receptors, removed his hands from the gloves, and leapt out of the extremely uncomfortable seat. "We found him! Mike! Mike!" He ran up, nearly exploding with excitement, and swept his friend into a reluctant hug. "We actually _found _him! You're a genius, Mike. Seriously, absolute bloody genius. Geniusy genius."

Laughing hysterically, Charlie pulled away from Michael and left the older man to fiddle with his laptop. Instead, Charlie turned to run out of the Computer Room and into the rest of the dull apartment. No sunlight spilled through the small windows that dotted the walls, as it was raining outside. But it always seemed to be raining and it always seemed to be dark, so that didn't dampened Charlie's spirits at all.

Of _course _it didn't because they'd found him, found Sawyer, after so many years of searching. He'd looked so healthy too, with his skin tanned and his hair long and…. Wow. Just wow. Just so very wow.

"Rose!" he yelled her name as he saw her and the others – Sayid and Ana – clustered around the coffee table with a building's blueprint spread in front of them. She looked up in surprise at the sudden noise, and Ana glared at him for being so loud but she'd stop glaring when she found out. He bounced over at sat on the shaky arm of the couch that Rose was sitting on. "I just saw him, Rose. Sawyer. Mike found some Cleaners, sent me in, and it was _him._"

Rose placed a hand on his jean-clad knee and squeezed, happy for him. She was smiling, but Sayid frowned and looked thoughtful. "You're certain it was Sawyer you saw?"

"Yeah, Sayid." Come on; he wasn't going to make a mistake, not about Sawyer. If it was anyone else, then he'd happily question himself but that had been him. Definitely. He just knew it. "And the Cleaners were after him. That's proof, isn't it? They only go after the prisoners, and it said that, didn't it? On the news report? They said they'd upped his sentence."

Sayid nodded, slowly, but Ana was still confused. They'd only picked her up after Sawyer had been taken – she'd never known him, so she didn't understand. Of course she didn't, poor girl, but that was okay. That was fine.

Eventually Sayid nodded. "Tell Michael to trace him. If the Cleaners have been sent after him once, it is highly likely that it'll happen again."

Rose looked towards him, away from Charlie. "And his body, Sayid? We need to get him out of there, before something happens to him."

"Something's _already _happened," Charlie said quickly. Rose's hand tightened on his knee, but it wasn't comforting. "There were four Cleaners, mate. Four. I had to get Michael to port me in a stick." Memory sticks – bloody useful things, in the government program. In the past, people would use him to store files; music, documents, photos, anything. Now you could upload anyone from the various virtual realities. Theoretically, in any case. The devices had been outlawed by the Government after that very useful quality had been discovered; however, Sayid was practically the King of Technology, so he'd managed to build them up some supplies.

"But you got out okay, didn't you?" Ana pointed out. Charlie frowned, but he had to nod.

Still… "They hurt Sawyer."

Rose stroked his knee, patted it once, then stood up. "But you took care of him, honey, and that's what matters. Now, Sayid. Me and Charlie are gonna go and make us all some dinner. I want you and Ana to have a plan to get that man's body back, by the end of tonight. Can you do that?" She smiled sweetly, talking in her gentlest voice, but there was steel in her; there always had been. That was why she had taken over as leader once Sawyer had been captured.

Sayid nodded, submitting to her soft-spoken authority, and she stood up. After a second's thought, Charlie did too, and ran a hand over his shaven head; they all had the same hairstyle, with everything buzzed off.

He missed his old hair, the stuff he had while in the Program, and the way that Sawyer used to run his hand through it after sex, but it needed to be like this. The visor didn't work right with a full set of hair, and you couldn't get the sensors close enough to your skin, so you couldn't go in unshaved. Even knowing that, even while being fully aware that it was essential, Charlie always felt a little guilty when getting rid of it.

He reached for the light switch as they arrived at their tiny kitchen. He and Rose had taken on the role of unofficial chefs for the moment. It hadn't really been a conscious decision, but it was a logical one nonetheless. Sayid _could _cook, but his time was much better spent with their technology and making plans; Michael got harassed in the kitchen and would snap at anyone foolish enough to offer to help and would yell at the food as if the power of his voice might convince it to cook properly; Ana could probably burn cereal, somehow.

Charlie, if he was honest, was an awful cook and Rose was only marginally better, but they could both open tins and microwave meals, and they both had the ability to stir pots, so they were considered to be master chefs.

Charlie left the door through to the kitchen open, so they'd be able to see into the living room. Ana and Sayid's voices changed to vague murmurs, as Charlie stared at the cream wallpaper with its brown flowered pattern and he just felt a little light-headed. He'd been searching for Sawyer since they'd be separated in the Government's headquarters four years ago. Seeing him again had been dizzying.

They hadn't even been _doing _anything when he'd been captured – just recon, nothing more. Just investigating a few of the rumours of a cyber-prison that had been flying around. Then Sawyer had gotten bored, and had started messing around; he'd grabbed Charlie's ass, pressed him hard against a wall and had started to kiss and bite at his neck. Seconds later, a torch had shone harshly on their faces, and Charlie always _had _been the faster runner. He'd got out. Sawyer hadn't made it.

He still felt guilty for that and he _was _going to get Sawyer back, but the way that Sawyer hadn't known his name, hadn't even recognised him…

That had hurt. Sawyer telling him that they were over, that he hated them, would have been easier to bear.

Instead, the man he'd known since they went to school together, the man he'd fallen into this political scene with, had just been replaced. New memories; it was all part of the coding, part of the program used to detain 'dangerous' criminals, so maybe everything would come flooding back to him once they got him out of that reality.

"Charlie?" Rose's voice cut through his thoughts. "I know your mind's elsewhere, but we're got a meal to cook. You better focus – we can't rescue your Sawyer on an empty stomach, can we?" She smiled indulgently, and he tried to smile back, because he _had _to.

He smiled shakily and nodded, while walking towards to try and decided if they wanted tinned peas or tinned sweet corn.

* * *

"Do you believe we can do this?" Rose asked Sayid calmly, while looking over maps of the holding facility that were spread in front of them between their chips plates and mugs. Charlie hadn't taken a single bite of the food.

It had taken Sayid two days to come up with a plan. During those two days, Charlie might have become a little frantic, and he might have more or less stopped talking, and he might have started watching the coding of Sawyer's reality compulsively. It was just… amazing. That was _Sawyer_; all they had to do to get him back was break into a top-secret high-security government building. Yup, simple.

Or, it would be. Sayid had a plan, didn't he? Sayid was a genius, wasn't he? Therefore, they'd use this plan and everything would work out perfectly.

"I believe it is possible – whether or not it is suitable, I don't know." Sayid looked down at his maps and his notepads as he spoke, as if they might tell him the future. Whatever he saw there didn't seem to please him, as he ran a hand over his jaw line.

Ana leaned forwards. "Bottom line, Sayid – are any of us going to get killed?"

"I don't know."

"Captured?"

"I don't know. There's no way for me to be able to guarantee your safety."

"Then why are we _doing _this?" she asked, and Charlie had just known that she was going to cause trouble. He leaned backwards on the couch, able to feel the ancient strings digging into him.

"Because he's a friend," Rose said, her voice containing years of trained patience. She'd worked with kids before this, in a nursery or something like that. From that to this was a pretty extreme jump.

Then again, Charlie knew that musician to activist to 'terrorist' was extreme too, so he didn't question it.

Ana wasn't looking at Rose, but Rose carried on talking anyway. "Ana, if you got caught, you'd expect us to go after you – you're one of us. Sawyer is too. So we're -"

She cut herself off as Michael appeared, popping his head through from the Computer Room. Charlie sat upright quickly, eyes wide.

"The Cleaners; they're back." That was all Michael had to say to get Charlie on his feet, rushing towards the door. He'd been expecting this, constantly on edge for the past forty-eight hours, but having to happen, knowing that the Cleaners were after Sawyer again, made his blood run cold. He ran towards the Computer Room, feeling as if he just couldn't move fast enough.


	2. Chapter 2

To be perfectly honest, Sawyer had had a worrying two days. That experience at the park had ruined his entire con, as Jessica had been too freaked out to be interested in him any more. That was fine, sort of. After _that _weird experience, he'd just wanted to get the hell out of town anyway – as far away as he could get.

The only problem with that glorious plan was that he still owed a couple of guys in the area, and they hadn't been pleased to see him doing a runner without settling his debts. There were hospital bills to pay too, but he'd given them someone else's details and had run off before they could do anything.

It wasn't as if they'd been able to do anything for him in any case. Bruises and a broken rib – they'd given him some pain-killers and that was it. He hadn't stuck around. If he wanted pills, he knew some people he could go to for them, with no nurses or doctors or ID required.

Stepping out of the gas station, a pack of cigarettes in one hand and the keys to his car in the other, he walked slowly back to his vehicle. Everything was slow – it had to be, or he risked putting himself in even more pain. That was the last thing he wanted right now, or ever.

The door to his black car opened with a slight tug on the handle, crying out in a quiet squeal. He slipped into his seat and couldn't help sighing as he sank back against the leather. He _loved _this car. He loved it even more, somehow, because it had been bought with stolen money. Stolen, conned, it was the same thing, wasn't it? Running his hand over the dashboard, then up over the wheel, he set off over the dark roads. He wasn't sure where exactly he was going, but he wanted to get there soon.

With the radio playing old country tunes and the shadowy silhouettes of mountains rolling past on either side, it didn't take long for the feeling of complete isolation to return and settle over him. It was well past midnight; the only light to be found was that of the moon, the stars, and his car's headlights. It was raining lightly, with soft drizzle landing on the window of the car. After a moment's though, Sawyer flicked the control to put the windscreen wipes on.

He tapped along in time with the music, singing with the snatches of lyrics that he actually knew, and he felt _good _for the first time since the incident in the park. Seeing as he wasn't feeling half bad, he should have known that something was about to come around and screw that up for him.

His car was hit from behind, with a small crash. He shuddered forwards in his seat, his car swerving wildly before he gained control again and glared into the mirror. It was black out there. Whoever was behind him had their lights off.

Feeling uneasy, he put his foot down on the accelerator and sped up. The road was slim, so there wasn't room for this guy to just over-take him. Sawyer didn't like letting people in front of him when he was driving in any case. It felt like a defeat. He'd speed up – this car could handle it.

So he kept his foot down and the car went faster, rushing to speeds that would get him arrested if that was a police car behind him. But a police car wouldn't creep through the darkness without any lights; a police car wouldn't ram into the back of him like that.

With his heart pumping, adrenaline running through his body, he didn't give a thought to why anyone would do that. Who cared? It gave him a reason to speed like this, the dark mountains whooshing past him and he could just _imagine _the other driver back there, eating dust and cursing their bad luck. He could see it so clearly in his mind's eye, and grinned.

There was another crash into the back of his car, harder this time. The free-wheeling smile faded from his face – without a seatbelt on, he'd nearly gone flying through the windshield. That wouldn't have been the best state of affairs for his health.

He slammed his hand down on the horn, and listened to the ear-splitting noise it made. The sound rang out into the night and echoed through it. In the dark, it seemed like there was no one around to listen to the sound apart from him.

That driver behind him didn't seem like someone that would pay attention to the horn, so Sawyer kept his foot on the pedal and allowed the speed to keep rising. He didn't think that he could even control the car at this speed, but he'd try – he was screwed if they came to a corner.

"Uhn," he grunted as there was another slam into his car; his control faltered. The vehicle swerved and this road was too thin to allow it to. The car jerked off the road and onto the rough mix of grass, dirt and stone that surrounded the tarmac, up a slope.

He moved uncontrollably along, even with his foot flat on the brakes, but he was slowing, gradually. Not enough. He tugged up the handbrake. A screech sounded, and the car jerked once more before stopping. Sawyer flopped back against his seat, stunned, with his fingers itching for one of those cigarettes that he'd earned. He reckoned he'd earned it.

"Move over," that British voice ordered from the seat beside him. Sawyer turned quickly, a break-neck speed, to look to the side. Sure enough, Charlie was sitting there, looking stressed and a little bit scared. What the hell? When'd he get there?

And there was no way Sawyer was giving up his seat to some skinny little kung-fu kid who appeared _inside his fucking car _for no reason. No way at all. He wanted to say that to Charlie, but just ended up staring, unable to piece a sentence together yet.

Charlie prodded his stomach, thankfully the opposite side from the broken rib. "Come on! We don't have much time. They'll be back any second now."

"They? Who's they?" Even while protesting, Sawyer found himself awkwardly switching seats with Charlie – Charlie climbing over the top of them while Sawyer slipped underneath and hit his ass on the gear-stick. Ow. "And why'd the hell do they wanna ruin my damn car?"

"It's not your car they're after." Charlie sounded irritated with him, which wasn't fair seeing as Sawyer hadn't even done anything. Yet. Sure, he'd be fine with that tone of voice if he felt he'd done something to deserve it – if he'd _earned _it. But he hadn't, he definitely hadn't, so it just annoyed him.

Before he could say anything, the car once more roared to life under Charlie's confident hands. Confident or not, Sawyer wasn't sure how good he felt about leaving his beautiful car's life in a stranger's hands – especially when that stranger had shown that he apparently had the ability to disappear and reappear at will.

Now, though, he seemed focused on this, on guiding the car back to the road and taking off at a speed that Sawyer _knew _the car wasn't capable of – no car should have been. The smell of burning rubber filtered in despite the closed windows, over-powering and stomach-turning. Damn. Now he _really _needed a cigarette.

"I hate this car," Charlie said, but he was distracted and it was possible to hear the strain in his voice despite his attempt to keep his tone light. "Don't like automatics." He seemed to be handling it just fine, however, moving the car slickly around a corner that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Sawyer rolled his eyes. "In that case, you just don't like _cars_." Sawyer wasn't sure where he'd picked up the ability to argue at these speeds. He was pressed against the back of his seat, but when the car made a whining screech on the road he hurriedly reached for his seatbelt.

A fumble with the buckle later and it was done; he had a pitiful barrier of safety, pressing down on his broken rib.

A neon sign reared up in the distance, pink and yellow against a black sky; they were approaching it at what felt like several miles per second. '_Magic Motel!' _the sign said. It looked like a screwy place, but at that second he was ready to worship it just for the light.

"You're getting out there," Charlie said calmly, never taking his eyes off of the road. "You're gonna go and get a room, then I'll meet you there in two minutes."

Sawyer once again wasn't given a chance to argue before he had to cling to the door as they turned, sharply, into the motel's car park. They skidded to a stop over the gravel, and Sawyer was still trying to connect his mind with his body again as he heard the driver's door opening and Charlie getting out.

He heard the crunch of footsteps around the car, then the door next to him opened and Charlie grabbed his arm. Charlie gave him a second to undo his seatbelt again, then yanked him out of the car.

"Go get us a room."

If Charlie was a hot girl and not a short man, Sawyer would have been smirking and making inappropriate comments by now. As it was, he was ready to start demanding answers before he felt Charlie's surprisingly gentle finger over his mouth. It smelt faintly of the car's wheel. "Please, just do this," Charlie said, before looking over at the road. His finger didn't move. "We've only got about four seconds 'til the Cleaners get here, and I really don't want to get you hurt. Again. Please?"

There was something – maybe the desperate plea in Charlie's voice, maybe the inviting lighting from the motel sign – that made Sawyer listen. He nodded silently, and walked towards the reception. He reached into the pocket to take out his cigarettes, _needing _a cigarette by now.

* * *

Oh, god. Too close. He could remember Sawyer being stubborn, Sawyer being argumentative, but he'd forgotten how annoying and frightening those aspects of his personality had been.

But Sawyer had eventually listened, hadn't he? He'd listen and he'd ran off; he'd ran _away _from a fight. That would never have happened before. Maybe a few years caught in the Program had forced him to develop some common sense.

Charlie wasn't sure, didn't think he even cared, as a second car roared over the gravel and into the car park. The place was more or less empty – Sawyer's car, the Cleaner's, and a green Ford Focus sitting in the far corner. No one else.

He gripped the memory stick he had with him hard in his hand as the door opened. Two women – technically they had no gender, but Charlie always thought of them as female – stepped out, and that was good. He could deal with two Cleaners without even breaking a sweat. Sometimes. Any more of them than that and things had a tendency to get confusing in a painful way.

"You should leave," he called out across the car park, and his voice sounded strong. Good. He liked to warn them before a fight broke out – it made him feel less guilty afterwards, even if they never listened. He knew they were just programs, just coding, just the 'delete' function really, but they looked human and that was enough. "He's protected. Get away from here."

Nothing registered on their faces; they stayed blank. He wondered if they even understood human speech.

It didn't matter seeing as a second later he had both of them running forwards at once, and he'd always been bad at this point. You had to work in perfect tandem – on the outside of the program, Michael typed in the controls to lift you up and defy gravity for you. On the inside, it was all dependant on how fast could you move.

Charlie dropped down to the ground and felt the cushioning resistance of gravity that meant Michael was with him on this, and swept his foot out. He caught Cleaner One's legs with his foot, and tugged them out from underneath her. He'd hovered back up to a standing position before One had even hit the ground.

One down, Two to go. She'd managed to get two steps past him, way too close to the reception, to Sawyer. Charlie couldn't let that happen.

He ran forwards, felt Michael lift him again, then his foot hit her back and knocked her off-balance. Long limbs flailing, she stumbled forwards and skidded on the gravel. She fell, and Charlie made sure to land on her back, squishing his whole body down onto her.

Still on top of her, he twirled the memory stick once in his hand and then _down_. There was the sickening resistance of skin and flesh as it sank in. He grimaced, but one press of a button later and there was nothing, she vanished; his feet dropped onto the gravel as she disappeared. That was easy enough.

As he strained back up, he didn't notice the fist aimed at his face until the punch landed and his vision exploded into pretty little stars. Cleaner One was up and about again, apparently. He'd hoped that her fall might have dazed her for a little bit longer than that. The rapidly forming bruise on his cheek would claim otherwise.

Stumbling backwards, he was just starting to recover when there was a kick to his stomach; a few inches lower and he could have kissed goodbye to the idea of ever having children.

Okay, enough of that – getting beaten up while you were fighting was no fun. He blocked the next kick, by catching her black booted foot in his hands and yanking. Theoretically, that was supposed to tip her off balance again.

In practice, her shoe came off in his hand and he was just left holding it.

They both stopped moving, her with one socked foot now resting tiptoed on the gravel. He raised an eyebrow, smirking, and glanced at the shoe before raising it to his nose to take a sniff. He wasn't sure why, really – just because he could, and because he probably wouldn't get the opportunity again.

It smelled pretty bad – like a half-rotten Stilton had been stored down there for a few weeks.

She seemed to take offence at his disgusted impression (_what'd you know, they have emotions)_ because the action had started again, with her moving forwards despite the way that she was missing an entire shoe. Panicking, Charlie chucked the boot at her; it hit her squarely on the nose.

Fighting back laughter, Charlie moved lightly backwards to try and get some space. Her nose had started bleeding, he noticed with a snort.

Pain flickered in his hand and the laughter stopped immediately – she'd thrown the boot back, aiming for his hand of all places. It seemed random, until he realised that the memory stick had been knocked right from between his fingers. Oh, bloody hell.

It had fallen and skimmed over to near the kerb, but Charlie knew that he wouldn't have a chance of reclaiming it. Maybe Michael would be able to help out, but for now that was kind of irrelevant.

He dropped and rolled as she tried to tackle him – it was painful for his shoulder as he'd never got the hang of falling, but she moved right past him so it worked. As he tried to get back to his feet, however, she reappeared, jumping on him so that she was straddling his hips and holding him down.

He tried to buck up and throw her off of him, with no luck – these things were _strong_. The gravel he laid on dug into his back. She punched him, hard, right where there was a bruise already forming. His head dropped to the side.

When the stars faded from his vision again, he realised that he could see scuffed jeans and rich blonde hair. Sawyer. Damn it, he'd thought getting a room might take longer than that. Sawyer, cigarette hanging in his mouth, was staring at the fight and clearly about to intervene.

The Cleaner on top of him had stopped throwing punches and was now fully focused on Sawyer, her real target. But Charlie wasn't about to let her get anywhere near him – there wasn't a lot that he could claim to do well, but he was _going _to take care of Sawyer.

His hand scrambled and picked up a handful of gravel. Swinging his arm, he threw the stones at her face. A few dropped down to hit him painfully, but it had the desired effect; she reared up in pain, distracted by it, which gave him the chance to push her off of him.

He didn't bother getting to his feet and just crawled ungracefully along the ground, jagged stones making his hands and knees ache, until he reached the kerb and closed his hand around the black stick lying there.

The gravity around him disappeared, so he launched himself upwards and spun through the air. She'd chased after him so she was close – he kicked his legs out as he spun and got her right in the face. Her nose started to bleed again.

He bent his legs and dropped to the ground. His arm thrust out and…. _There_. It sunk in and he pressed the right button. One flicker, two, gone.

He tucked the stick back into his jeans' pocket and attempted to catch his breath. Sweat had gathered quickly – he could feel a bead of it rolling down his spine.

Turning around to see Sawyer, he smiled as widely as he could, even though one of the pieces of gravel had made his forehead start to bleed, and he'd probably have about twenty bruises to have fun with for the next week. "Well," he said. "Should we go inside, then? Have a cup of tea?"

Sawyer stared at him like he was insane, but eventually nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

Sawyer watched Charlie nursing a cup of tea between his hands, blowing on it occasionally to try and get it to cool down. There were a few awkward looking bruises on his face, and the skin had been grazed off the palm of his hand. They'd come through to this tiny little bedroom about five minutes ago, with Charlie talking nervously even though the bruising over his jaw made him sound as if he had a mouth full of cotton wool. There was a light dusting of rain over his clothes, along with dashes of mud. Sawyer wondered if he ought to offer him a spare set to change into it. He decided that it would be pointless; the clothes would just swamp Charlie.

He seemed even smaller, sitting on the edge of the bed, all beaten up and shivering. He seemed tiny, but Sawyer could see the muscle lining his arms. He'd also seen exactly what Charlie had done to those things outside - 'Cleaners', was that what he'd called them? - and knew that the guy wasn't nearly as breakable as he seemed.

But he was doing a very good impression of being harmless right now, so Sawyer hadn't said anything. Yet. He'd let Charlie sit down on the bed and he'd stayed leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup of black coffee and drinking from it once in a while. His gaze kept dropping to the black stick that lay on the bed, next to Charlie.

Finally taking a sip from the tea, Charlie winced at the heat before he glanced up at Sawyer. His eyes seemed thoughtful, but he didn't say anything.

"Alright. Screw it. I'm done waiting," Sawyer said, impatience getting the best of him. Charlie's eyes locked with his, and there was strength there, a stubborn edge to rival his own. Sawyer didn't care. He wanted to _know _everything, now. "Tell me what's going on."

Charlie nodded, but he frowned. "I don't think I know how. And I have to leave soon anyway. Can I fix your rib?"

That wasn't any where near the answer that Sawyer had been looking for. "Can you fix my…. No. You can't. It's _broken , _'cause of you." Sawyer could see the guilt that those words made flash over Charlie's face, but that didn't shut him up. Charlie ought to feel guilty for it (for the time being, Sawyer chose to ignore that Charlie had saved his life on two different occasions and definitely hadn't had anything to do with that rib). "So no. You can keep your 'disappearing stick' the hell away from me and just tell me what's going on."

Charlie looked down at his tea with an annoyed sigh. "You really don't remember?"

Sawyer didn't like that question. It implied that there was something _to _remember, and that he'd just forgotten it. He was usually pretty good at keeping track of stuff like that. So what did that mean? Who the hell was Charlie? Childhood friend, long lost brother, arch nemesis - there were a lot of options, alright? "Remember _what_?"

"Everything." Charlie shook his head and leaned back on the bed so that he was propped up by just his elbow. His spare hand ran through his hair and he seemed almost surprised by the action. He got over it quickly and started to tug at the strands of hair there. "I mean…. Christ. You're gonna think I'm mental."

"I already do."

"Fine. But when you don't believe me, I'm going to say I told you so."

"I can deal with that."

Charlie fell silent at first and laid back properly as he stared at the ceiling. Sawyer didn't move forwards to join him and just retained his position in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Did you ever go and see the Matrix?" Charlie asked curiously, without looking at him.

"Saw the first one. Didn't like it."

"Thought it was pretentious bullshit, right?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. That's what you said when me and you watched it, back in the real world," Charlie said with a broken smile on his face. Sawyer raised an eyebrow; he'd remember _that _. Nope, he'd gone to see that dumb film with his latest con -- he'd let her pick the film, thinking that she'd pick some light rom-com. Instead he'd ended up with action sequences and weird sunglasses.

A pause fell between them, thick and expanding. He had questions to fill it with but he held them back, for now. The connection between his mind and his mouth seemed to have worn away.

He had to quickly re-establish it when Charlie asked him a question; what year was it? That was easy enough to answer, but Charlie just nodded and frowned after he told him.

"Charlie," he snapped; the name was a disturbing mix of familiar and foreign on his tongue -- apple pie and chili peppers. "You'd better start explaining all of this soon, or I'm gonna double the number of bruises you're carrying around. Got it?"

The threat only made Charlie smile, which sort of made sense. Charlie could probably beat him up in seconds, despite the fact that you could probably fit him into a thimble if you really, _really _tried.

"Okay, here goes. If you start laughing, I'm gonna leave. No kidding," Charlie warned him; Sawyer grunted to show that he'd heard and agreed. "I'm not good at giving these 'Rabbit Hole' speeches, by the way. And we could do with a grander setting. A run-down motel with mould on the ceiling doesn't really have the right effect, does it?"

Sawyer growled Charlie's name to get him to hurry up.

"Okay, okay. Let's just start…. In the middle. Linear story-telling's out of fashion, isn't it? So. Middle. Um." Charlie fell silent and seemed at a loss. "Look, here's the thing: this isn't real. Any of it. This whole world you're living in? Big fake. Honest. Like… it's a computer game. Sort of?

"On the outside, the year's 2108 -- we've developed the tech for complicated AI, and for realistic Virtual Realities. About 50 years ago, I think, there was this huge break-out from one of the prisons. People went absolutely mental, with hundreds of these psychos running around at random. There were riots and stuff. And looting. My grandpa used to say that some guy bit his ear off during that, but I think it was actually the cat. Grandpa was in Manchester at the time, and the riots were in London, so…. Yeah."

He paused again, stopping for breath, then continued. "Anyway, that's not the point. Point is… something. Me and you. We were--" He stopped for a split second. "-- friends, I guess. Used to do everything together. Then - long story short, right? - we got mixed up with this group. They're called The Sleepers. Big political thing, very anti-government. 'cause right now the guys in charge are complete arseholes. Seriously. They go around pissing on anyone that doesn't earn more than £100,000 a year, and we're all bloody drowning in poverty while they're off smoking cigars and… I dunno. Eating cake. Whatever it is that rich people do. They treat the unemployed like their bitches. It's--

"I'm getting off topic again." He closed his eyes for a moment, while Sawyer sat there and wondered how anyone could talk that fast; it was easier to think about that than about the psychotic nonsense that was coming out of Charlie's mouth. "Anyway. We heard they were trying out this new way of controlling the prisoners, right? Post-breakout? They'd already tried out a bunch of stuff, and it hadn't worked, but then there were all these rumours. The usual stuff -torture, red-hot pokers, thumbscrews, that sorta stuff - that people were always coming out with, but there was this other stuff too. Like… just these whispers. About computers, VR, 'The Program', but nothing concrete.

"So, me and you, we crept into this old prison. You were bloody amazing, you know that? I mean… you could _do _stuff. Shoot and fight and make up plans. Anything." There was such warmth in his voice that Charlie sounded nostalgic; Sawyer knew he had the wrong person, if all of this turned out to be true. "When we were kids, you jumped right off this bridge into the river, no warning at all. I thought you were dead, but then you just popped up and started swimming and were fine. It was _amazing_."

Charlie sat up quickly, focused again, and the smile on his face faded. "But there we were, in that building and I distracted you. These guards just appeared out of nowhere, and they had i _guns /i _and… I got out. I thought you were right behind me but then you weren't and--" He cut himself off and shook his head. Sawyer didn't speak up, not yet. It was too weird for him to want to interrupt.

Charlie stood and looked both left and right. It seemed like he want to start pacing but just wasn't sure how to go about it. He ended up simply standing there uselessly, glued to the spot; an escapee without an escape route. "We've been looking for you ever since. There's just five of us in London now. Jin got married, moved back to Korea. Walt's in college. _College_. He's smart, y'know. Wants to be a lawyer. I think he's gonna end up being the next Prime Minister, actually. Not likely, though -- it's been thirty years since Britain's last election, so…. Yeah."

He let out a long, shaky breath, and seemed so relieved to have actually finished with the explanation. Sawyer was still left with more questions than answers, and time seemed to be slipping away from them.

"So who the hell are those guys that keep coming after me? You've explained just about everything else, from politics to the Matrix, but I'm only wanting to know about the part that affects _me_." Sawyer kept his voice as blunt as he could, even though Charlie looked like he was about to break apart and _that _made him want to take Charlie's hands in his and promise that everything was going to be okay. When had he developed a damn maternal instinct? It wasn't natural.

Charlie bounced lightly on his feet and took a deep breath as he tried to calm himself down. "They're Cleaners. Which basically means they're part of The Program. They're bots, designed to delete people like you. Which also means that _someone _in the Government's decided that they want you dead. I'd guess they've decided that about all the old prisoners. But it's fine; don't worry. Sayid's got a plan. We'll have you out of here in no time."

Sawyer's eyes widened. "You _what_? Out of here? No way." He wasn't even buying the story. He didn't believe any of that nonsense about computers and Cleaners and the future and bots and corrupt governments. All the same… the idea of leaving this world, even hypothetically, made his insides uneasy. "I like it here. It's got everything you need."

"What? Cheap beer and lousy cigarettes?"

"Among other things, yeah. I got all that here and I like it. I ain't planning on going anywhere else any time soon, so you can give up on your rescue attempt."

"If we don't do this, the Cleaners _will _track you down again, and they'll kill you." With that one word, 'Cleaners', even diluted with Charlie's accent, Sawyer's arms tightened just a fraction from where he had them crossed over his chest.

He'd rarely met anyone that he didn't think he'd win against in a bar fight. He'd never met a single soul that he wouldn't be able to outdraw in a shoot out. These 'Cleaners', though… they made him stop to reconsider the whole idea, and come up with a plan of his very own.

He shook his head, eventually. "Fine. You stay here, then. Act like my bodyguard."

Charlie laughed, a half-hiccupping sound, but quickly refused. "No. I'm needed on the outside, and I might get lost if I stay in here too long. Like, I might start losing my memory, just like you. Actually…" He looked up at the stained ceiling. "I should probably go. You keep safe, okay? Mike's keeping an eye on you through the code, but… just…" He didn't seem to know what advice to give, so eventually just shook his head and gave up. He stepped forwards to touch Sawyer's hand lightly, two fingers on the side of his palm.

Sawyer frowned, untrusting, because that was an oddly intimate gesture from someone that he wasn't currently conning. Charlie smiled. "See you soon, yeah?"

A brief flicker, then all that Sawyer's hand was holding was air.

* * *

Charlie ripped the visor off, then the dotted sensors on his head, then the gloves on his hands, before jumping out of the footholds. The movements were rough and jagged, bordering on violence. Michael looked up quickly, worried. There were dark circles under his eyes, as there always were ever since his son had left, but Charlie didn't pay any attention to them or even to the alarmed look on Michael's face.

He couldn't pay attention to anything right now, because this was all too much -- this _life _was getting to be too much. He fled from the Computer Room, a miniature tornado, slamming doors as he went. He crashed in the bedroom eventually, collapsing onto his mattress on the floor. There were four of them in there -- Rose's, Sayid's, Ana's and his. He used to share with Sawyer, once upon a time.

Now it was just him on this slim bed, just him and no one else. Sawyer didn't remember -- he didn't even _want _to remember. He wanted to stay in that machine, in a fake world with fake memories and a fake life. Fake, fake, fake. There was a part of Charlie that was tempted to just let him -- let the Cleaners catch up with him and do what they liked. Who cared, right? Sawyer would probably prefer that.

He wasn't aware that he was crying until Rose came in and sat a mug of hot chocolate on the ground next to him. Then she groaned and sat down on the mattress opposite his, her knees making a clicking sound as she went down. They couldn't afford the bed frames to lift the mattresses off of the floor.

"Honey, what happened?" she asked. Her worn hand reached out to him - a warm thumb traced the tear tracks down his cheek. Rose Nadler, den mother.

He sniffed and rolled over, to put his back to her, because he didn't want to speak, didn't want to tell. He'd hidden away his reaction to all of this when he was in front of Sawyer. He wanted to hide it now too.

Rose's hand withdrew. "Charlie, I'm only offering my sympathy this once. If you don't want it, then buck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Charlie turned his head to look at her. "I'm not--"

"Yes, you are. So pull yourself together, alright?"

Charlie nodded, without looking her in the eyes. She made it sound simple, but it wasn't. He needed time to do that, to get back to normal, but they didn't have it. Here, they never did. So much to do, so little time, right? Charlie took a breath. "How's Sayid's plan looking?" His voice was stuffed with his blocked nose and tears and a broken heart, but he was trying his best.

Rose 'mmm'ed an answer to herself, then took a drink from the cooling mug of hot chocolate that she'd brought through. "It's do-able, I think. But I'm not going to let you come along," she said it quickly, lightly, but she was trying to just skim past it without being noticed.

Not gonna happen.

"What?! Why not? Christ, Rose…" Charlie sat up sharply, staring at her with his blue eyes still wild and crazy from the tears. Her brown gaze calmly met his own -- they seemed to hold a warning not to argue. Charlie, obviously, ignored it. "This is _Sawyer _. You can't leave me out of this."

"I never planned on doing that, Charlie -- you'll be staying here with Michael. Someone has to take Sawyer out of The Program once we find his body. He knows you."

Even with that reasoning, Charlie felt like he was being benched. This was Sawyer, his old partner, that they were rescuing, and he was more or less being told to stay at home and knit while they did the hard work. It was bullshit.

He was ready to tell her as much when she thrust the mug into his hands and stood up, with a little effort. "I've made my decision on this, so don't argue, please. We've got a week while Sayid gets everything ready. Then we'll get you your Sawyer back. I promise."

She stood up and walked out before Charlie could start to hiss and spit at her in rage. He was left looking down at the mug in his hands, with his pulse racing uncomfortably.

* * *

His gaze was focused on the clock. Tick. Tock. _Any time now. Come on. Any time now. _

He'd been thinking that for the past two hours; ever since Sayid, Ana and Rose had left through the front door, dressed in all black. The seven days had passed achingly slowly, with the plan drilled and drilled and drilled into his head; diversions and gymnastics and a pinch of good luck, that was all they needed.

And a phone call. Two rings then hang up, and that would be Charlie's cue to--

"Charlie? Are you nearly ready?" Michael asked, his clear voice cutting right through Charlie's thoughts. His tired face looked a little more rested today -- last night, Charlie had chased him off to bed and had taken his station by the computer, watching the code flashing past. Binary. Stupid _binary_. That stuff was designed purely to give you a headache.

Charlie nodded to Michael's question. The visor and sensors were already on, with wires trailing down from him like blood-sucking worms, he'd been standing with his feet on the footrests for ages now and his palms were sweaty from the inside of the clammy gloves. Because of the visor, the entire room was coloured blue. Yeah, he was ready. "Definitely."

Michael smiled -- coloured blue like this, he looked like a bizarre form of alien. "I wish Walt was here. He'd have loved this. He nearly worshipped Sawyer, man, before…"

Charlie nodded, because he could remember just how annoying that had been. He and Sawyer had never been able to get a moment alone, with Walt following them around and trying to be so cool. Charlie had hated it at the time. Then Sawyer had been taken and Walt had gone to college and everything had just fallen apart.

"Yeah. Maybe he'll come and visit Sawyer, once we've got him back?" Maybe, but Walt hadn't been back since he'd first left for college.

Michael nodded vaguely, looking back to the binary numbers scrolling over the screen. The mournful expression that had taken over his face while talking about Walt snapped into an alarmed one. "Damn it, we've got Cleaners. They're in his building. Getting closer." He said, reading the binary numbers as easily as if they were English words. "Fuck, they're in his i _room /i _. You can't go in yet, Charlie. You wouldn't be able to hear--"

_Ring_. Charlie's hands formed fists inside their gloves. _Ring_. Come on, come on, come on. The phone went dead. He looked towards Michael and nodded. It was time.


	4. Chapter 4

Another day, another crumby motel. This one had a water-stain in the corner of the ceiling, and some other stains on the mattress that Sawyer didn't yet have the courage to investigate. He would, eventually, when he got bored enough.

However, at the moment he was focused on his Stephen King novel. Pretending to be focused, in any case. He was crouched on the end of the bed, eyes skimming loosely over the words as he tried not to jump at shadows. He'd been skittish all week, ever since Charlie had disappeared from his room. Between the Cleaners that were apparently after him, and the loan-sharks who definitely _were _after him, he was a little bit stressed.

He was also off his game. This entire situation was messing him up -- it was making his head spin. He couldn't yet believe that this was a program, a prison for his mind -- how could the words he was reading be comprised of coding? It was all too intricate, too perfect. It couldn't be faked.

So how else did he explain it? Gravity-defying kung-fu and disappearing men; how did he explain that?

Quite simply: he didn't. He didn't even try to, didn't even think. There was no need to do so, there never have been. Thinking just messed with your head; it brought those niggling doubts into your mind.

'_Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow.'_

He glanced up from the page as he heard a faint sound outside his door. Faint didn't even cover it; it was a whisper of sound, a beggar's breath on a winter morning. But it was enough.

_Enough to make me paranoid_, Sawyer thought when nothing followed the sound but silence. Probably just the natural sounds of the building. It was an old place -- it had the creaks and groans built into the walls. What he'd heard was nothing.

It had still made him jump, hadn't it? He tried to return his attention to the book.

'_On the surface, all the girls in the shower room were shocked, thrilled, ashamed, or simply glad that the White--'_

He snapped the book shut as he _definitely _heard a sound in the hallway that time. Louder, slightly bolder, it was the tap of a footstep outside. Flat shoe, probably, as a heel would have made more sound than that. Probably a trainer, maybe one of those canvas shoes that everyone seemed to be wearing these days.

Slowly, slowly, trying not to make a sound, he placed the book down on the bed. His hand then slipped to his back, under his shirt, to the gun tucked by his waistband. It wasn't registered under his real name -- by official documentation, this gun belonged to 'Jin Walt'. The names Charlie had mentioned had been stuck in his head, so he'd put them down while getting the weapon.

Now the gun was pulled and pointed at the door. Yep, he was paranoid. Too paranoid for his own good. His finger settled tight on the trigger and he breathed only through his nose. The room smelled faintly of wet dog.

_There's no one there. No one. Just an empty corridor, you dick. So go and check. Open the door. It'll be empt.y Just put your gun away and read your dumb book. Stephen King. That's why you're jumpy. Mutant powers, murders… it's doing your head in._

There was no one there, right?

The door slammed open, right off its hinges. Two of those emotionless Cleaners stood there, black hair slicked back tightly. They filed in, with one on either side of the door. Against the metal of the gun he clung to, Sawyer's hands felt clammy.

He stood up, onto the bed, and took two long strides back to hit the wall as two more of those things entered. His mind was chanting at him - _fuckfuckfuck - _in a loop, never-ending.

Aiming at the closest one, he pulled the trigger. The banging sound hurt his ears but he ignored it, and switched to his aim to the next one. Shot again. Switch, shoot. Switch, shoot. Repeat as necessary.

Or, in Sawyer's case, repeat until you run out of bullets. Then he swore to himself because there was no blood, no pain, no reaction. They just stood there, crowded at one side of the room and watching him with blank eyes. Maybe Charlie was right; this was all just coding, just nothing, just a game: just, just, just. But it was still 'just' his life and he wasn't anywhere near ready to lose it yet.

Wasn't now the time where Charlie was supposed to swoop in and save him? Sawyer hated the idea that he _needed _to be saved, but it was a choice between getting rescued or dying painfully, he knew exactly which one he was going to pick.

But Charlie wasn't appearing. Charlie stayed gone and Sawyer was left to face this alone. "_Damn _it," he yelled, and chucked the metal gun at one of their faces.

It hit the forehead then bounced harmlessly onto the floor. All four of the Cleaners blinked, but that was all.

The two flanking the door marched forwards, up either side of the bed. Oh, hell no. Sawyer glared and kicked out the one on the left. She grabbed his leg and held it tightly under once arm. Once she had it, just _held _it, without doing anything.

As he yanked and yanked at his leg to try and get it free, the Cleaner on his right grabbed the other leg. They both pulled at once -- he plopped down arse-first onto the bed. A flare of pain shot up from the base of his spine, because these beds really weren't designed to be used as trampolines.

As he jerked around in pain, the two Cleaners adjusted their positions. One sat on his legs, holding him still, while the other mimicked the position, but with his arms.

He bucked and twisted and reared, thrashing around like a trapped insect. The two Cleaners held him like he wasn't moving at all.

The other two moved forwards; one on each side of the bed, again. One of them pulled up his shirt, exposing his stomach and the muscles he'd worked on. Frantic gaze thrashing around with his body, he paused, stunned, when he saw the flash of metal in the fourth Cleaner's hand. His vision clear -- it was a silver version to the black stick that Charlie used.

Charlie's stick made people disappear.

Sawyer didn't want to disappear.

He started struggling again with twice the strength and energy of before. He managed to dislodge the Cleaner on his arms, long enough to scratch uselessly at her face, but the victory only lasted a second before the Cleaner that had pulled up his shirt joined it; together, the two of them pinned his arms with ease.

He sucked in his stomach as the Cleaner brought the metal stick - USB stick, his mind noted calmly among the rest of his chaotic thoughts - lower and lower, until he could feel it on his stomach. It was positioned clinically, exactly the width of two fingers up from his belly button. A hand stretched the skin there so that it was completely flat, and all it would take would be _one push, _one tiny push, and it would break the skin, it would be shoved right down into him, through skin and muscle and everything else, then he was gone, he was dead, the Cleaners won, Charlie lost, he died.

"Hey!" Charlie's voice yelled, and Sawyer didn't think that he'd ever heard a sweeter sound. The Cleaner with that stick was pulled backwards, then pushed so that she stumbled towards the door. Then there were punches and kicks and who knew what else to the other three. They had to let go of him in order to fight Charlie off, so Sawyer quickly found himself in control of his limbs again. Thank fucking God.

He sat up, then got to his feet. Instantly, he tugged his shirt to make it stayed down. A glance up after that told him that the other side of the room was a whirlwind of violence.

Sawyer winced as Charlie was elbowed in the stomach, and knew that he ought to step in and intervene. But he seemed to be useless against these people -- and, to be honest, the sight of them made him want to crawl under that bed. Instead, he glanced at the window, and wondered if he would be able to safely climb out of it even though they were on the second floor.

He was interrupted when Charlie managed to pant out his name. "Sawyer-" Charlie was cut off by a punch to the stomach, but the sound of his voice rooted Sawyer to the spot.

Charlie recovered quickly -- back-hand to the Cleaner's face, kick to another one's stomach to drive them back, then levitating over the third's head to a different spot. "Here-" He chucked his stick at Sawyer. Sawyer caught it with one hand, then stared blankly at Charlie. "Your leg," Charlie explained, then broke off to turn and kick sideways at one of the Cleaners as they approached. She fell backwards, into another of them, and like dominoes they all fell down in a dangerous heap. Charlie turned back to him. "Your leg. You have to put it in your leg." Then he was lost in the mad violence again, being dragged down into the heap, and Sawyer was left with that stick and Charlie's bizarre words.

_Your leg. You have to put it in your leg_.

In? As in _in_? As in stab it in?

Oh, fuck. Charlie was serious. He had to be. Which meant…

Sawyer looked down at his leg, then moved over to sit on the side of the bed.

He could do this. He didn't have much choice. The grunts and groaned of pain that he could hear from his fight said that the fight was vicious, Charlie was out-numbered and those Cleaners were going to stop at nothing.

That left him with a nice choice: die, or stab yourself in the leg. It sounded like a cruel choice to have to make.

He glanced up - Charlie had his arms held back by two of them, being punched repeatedly by a third, while the fourth was slumped on the floor, dazed.

Four against one. As much as Sawyer hated to be the pessimist, the odds weren't in their favour.

Fuck this, then.

He placed the stick against the flesh of his thigh. Holding it there with one hand, lightly keeping it positioned, his other hand got ready to punch it straight into the flesh of his leg. _On four_?

One.

He could hear the slapping sounds of fist on flesh.

Two.

The crash of the plaster on the wall breaking.

Three.

The groan as his stomach threatened to make him throw up.

Four.

His own yell ringing in his ear. Pain. God, pain. He hadn't even registered that he'd pulled back his hand, that he'd slammed it against the stick, that he'd driven it straight through his jeans and his skin, into the muscle. It shouldn't have been that sharp; it was a USB stick, he'd used one before but it hadn't been-- fuck. It hadn't been like this.

Red blood was rushing past his hands, over his skin, and he'd thought Charlie, thought Charlie had -- Charlie had said this would help, would make it better, would save him - save _them_.

He was still yelling in pain, but he couldn't hear himself any more, he just heard his own panicked thoughts running around his head.

He got control again, gasping and desperate for breath, while he realised that he could hear Charlie's voice again. "… on the side. Sawyer? I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. There's a button, on the side. You've got to press it."

A button. Right. His fingers were slick with blood and he had to fight back his (_oh god) _panic in order to search for it -- but he found it, eventually, and pressed down.

Everything went mercifully black.

* * *

When the yelling stopped and Sawyer disappeared with a goodbye flicker, Charlie sighed with relief, despite the pain he was in. That was one half of his job done. Now he just needed to get away from those Cleaners.

That was, fortunately, easy enough to do while they were trying to comprehend Sawyer's sudden disappearance. Using their distraction to his advantage, Charlie jumped up - and quickly felt the cushioning effect of suspended gravity - and kicked both feet out into the stomach of the Cleaner in front of him. She fell backwards and slammed her head off of the end of the bedpost, before slumping uselessly to the floor.

Charlie flung himself backwards and thrust his left arm over him, to the right. The Cleaner that had been holding that arm back was tugged along for the ride - she knocked heads with the other woman and both of them stumbled clumsily to the side.

Knowing he only had a few seconds, Charlie dashed forwards and leapt over the unconscious body at the bed. He scooped up the black USB stick from the blood-stained sheets and clenched in tightly in his hand. He turned and ran, straight at the window. Without any other option, he took a leapt of faith and jumped right at it.

Smashing glass scratched at his arms, his face, his legs, _everywhere_, but half-way through the fall Michael suspended gravity, and he floated gently down to the ground.

He heard a snarl of anger upstairs as he feet landed softly on the concrete, and knew that he didn't have long to do this.

"Mike!" he yelled up at the sky, as he set off running down the motorway. It was dark, but he didn't know if that would help or not. Were the Cleaners affected by light and dark?

His feet pounded down the motorway anyway and this _hurt_. He'd only be able to keep it up for a few minutes, at most; he'd never been very good with pain. Sawyer used to accuse him of being a wuss, and Charlie couldn't exactly argue with that. He'd never find the strength to stab himself in the leg, regardless of how much it was needed.

Running, he had to wait a few moments, while Michael scanned the object in, before he felt a comforting weight in the pocket of his trousers. He slipped a hand into the pocket then tugged it out - a small hand-held computer. It was nothing fancy, especially by the standards of his own time, but it'd get the job done.

He slowed down when a burning stitch developed in his side, making it painful to even breath. Bugger. He slowed down to a walk then gave up on all movement and instead sat down on the speed-rail. It was uncomfortable and awkward, but it was better than moving with this _stitch_.

Wincing with each breath, he switched on the hand-held device. It seemed to take an age to load up, torturing him with a 'Loading -- Please Wait' sign. With faintly shaking hands, he slotted the stick into the USB port - it slid in with a satisfying click; that was just as well as he was sure he'd break down if it didn't work.

Rushing enough to get himself confused, he made the transfer - attach Sawyer's file to an email, send it to 'sjarrah4hotmail.verse', click send; it was simple. Crushingly, heartbreakingly simple and low tech - and watched it 'sending, sending, sending'.

Sent.

He glanced up the road, able to see the Cleaners rushing down towards him - they moved fast enough to blur. "_Michael!"_ he yelled up at the sky.

Still clutching the computer with the USB attached, the dark road faded from around him, so that he was left staring at the Computer Room through the blue lenses of the visor. His hands were empty - computer and stick back in the scanner, where they'd always been.

"It worked, then?" Michael asked, a mixture of worried and excited. Charlie nodded; his half of the plan had worked. Now Sayid would get the email and download Sawyer's consciousness into his body. After that it got difficult again -- trying to creep out of a government facility with a man who might not remember any of his training.

But he would, surely. He would. Yet, even as Charlie grinned past the pain he was in even if the cuts were gone, he wasn't sure how this was going to work from now on.

He still acted confident and optimistic - he was Charlie bloody Pace. Optimism was expected from him. He was the 'baby' of the group, despite having been there the longest. Everyone seemed to want to take care of him and get rid of his grief. Maybe that attitude would stop once he had his Sawyer back.

He nodded and gave Michael a thumbs up before removing the visor. "Yeah, it worked."


	5. Chapter 5

Sawyer's eyes snapped open to a dusky room full of shadows and nightmares. His mouth felt dry, as if he hadn't drank anything in days.

The pain in his leg was gone. He sighed, content. What kind of maniac was he, anyway? Who stabbed their own leg just because someone told them to?

He was in hospital, he'd guess. The bed he was lying on was awkwardly uncomfortable and there was an IV tube snaking out of his arm, along with various other wires. He didn't know what those wires were for, but he'd imagine it was something medical.

He grunted, confused and in pain, when someone started to briskly remove all of those excess wires. They were plucked steadily from his scalp, which was when Sawyer realised that his hair was no longer brushing his shoulders, like he usually did. It was _gone_.

This was serious, now. What kind of insane hospital was this, shaving off a patient's hair without getting their written, legal permission first? Bastards.

He struggled to sit up, but just that movement made him feel like he was trying to climb Everest. "_What_ is going on?" he snapped, as his eyes opened and he saw an Iraqi man standing over him, getting rid of the wires.

"Unless you want us to be found, I'd suggest your keep your voice down," the man said in an accented whisper. _Aw, great_, Sawyer though, _I'm not only in a hospital, I'm in a damn_Arab_ hospital. They'll probably cut my head open to let the 'demons' out any second now._

He yanked his arm away from the man, but the grip on it tightened. "Don't panic. I'm Sayid, a colleague of Charlie's. I _am _going to get you out of this place, but I need you to try to cooperate with me."

Sawyer glared but relaxed his arm and stopped struggling. Charlie's 'colleague'… So this was real? He was out of The Program and right into the year 2108? Bullshit. No way. Not possible.

He sat up and yanked the IV out of him arm, with a tight-lipped response to the pain and the small dot of blood it produced. He looked sceptically back at Sayid. "Where's Charlie?" he asked, keeping his voice quiet but not bothering to whisper.

He tried to sit up and get to his feet, but everything _hurt_, badly. It hurt in the same way he felt when waking up the morning after screwing up a con and running like mad. His muscles were just strained and fed up with him -- they were going on strike.

"Charlie's back at our base. Here, let me help you. Your body is weak right now." Sayid received a glare after speaking, because Sawyer refused to let anyone say he was weak. He refused to _be _weak.

He accepted the help anyway. Not because he needed it, he told himself, but because… um. Because otherwise Sayid might call for the guards. Yeah. That excuse worked. Sort of.

He put his arm over Sayid's shoulders, and together they managed to get him out of the bed. Sawyer ignored the way his legs trembled under the stress of having to hold his body up.

There were other beds in the ward. Six beds in total, but his was empty now. The five other people lying on those beds liked like they were dead. They were corpses; dead to the world even if their minds still ticked along and worked inside its own version of the Program. Each body had its own collection of knotted wires.

Sayid and Sawyer made their slow way through the ward and into the corridor outside. It sprawled along in either direction, with blank white tiles on the wall. The pea green linoleum on the floor was old and curling at the sides; an ancient relic of world long gone. There were no windows at all.

No doors, either, but Sayid turned to the left and started walking confidently in that direction. Sawyer tried to carry as much of his own weight as he could, but with his legs hurting more and more with every step, he wasn't nearly as useful as he should have been.

They reached a corner and turned -- a light hit them out of nowhere. Bright and blinding, the torch beam hit their faces. Sawyer groaned and cringed backwards, like a nocturnal creature.

The light was eventually lowered; the ferocity of the beam was directed at their chests instead. Sawyer reluctantly looked back in front of him. There was a security guard there, young and uniformed with pimples decorating his face. His hair was a fierce ginger colour; if they'd gone to school together, this kid would have been one of Sawyer's targets to bully.

His voice was gruff when he spoke, with a London accent making the words almost impossible to understand. "What's this here then?" he asked, waving his torch light vaguely over them. "What's going on? Who are you lot?" This time he brandished the torch menacingly at Sayid, like it was a sword.

Sayid didn't appear to be at all scared by this. He looked utterly calm, which was pretty nice of him considering that they'd just been _caught_. "Don't be alarmed," he warned, before the security guard let out a grunt then collapsed to the floor, his face slack.

Behind him was a woman with a gun in her hand -- she'd apparently hit the guard with the butt of the gun. Short, Hispanic, hot as hell despite the shaved head. Sawyer grinned at her, but he clearly wasn't at his best right now because she looked him over sceptically, before her attention shifted to Sayid. "This is him?" she asked. She didn't sound impressed.

Bitch.

Sayid nodded. "This is him. However, he doesn't appear to have regained his memories, so I'm not sure how useful he will be to us."

The woman looked unhappy; pissed off, she stalked forwards, over the security guard, to support the other side of Sawyer's body. "So all this has been for nothing?" she asked, as they all started to walk forwards. Sawyer's legs wouldn't let him step neatly over the guard, so he just stepped on his back instead.

"Perhaps," Sayid said, but his tone implied that this wasn't something that he was comfortable with discussing in front of Sawyer. Sawyer scowled -- he already hated this world. Moving them towards a staircase, Sayid indicated to the woman. "Sawyer, this is Ana. She's been working with us for nearly six months now."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, GI Jane."

"Wish I could say the same."

Sawyer really hated the place.

It wasn't a nice looking place, either. Tall grey buildings, several stories high, crowded in around the streets. There was no personality to it -- just a cold and uniformed sameness, like a bunch of Lego blocks. Identical streets, identical buildings, identical people, identical lives.

Sawyer leaned against the car door as they drove over broken tarmac. At Sayid's insistence, he had to put his seatbelt on. He'd objected, but now with the car jolting over the cracked roads, he could see why. You'd end up smashing through the front of the car in no time without a belt to hold you down.

"Crummy neighbourhood," he said, the first time any of them had spoken in the time minutes since they'd left the building he'd woken up in. He'd thought that it was a hospital; the sign outside had told him it was a prison.

Ana shrugged and didn't look back at him from where she was riding in the front with Sayid. "This place is classy, compared to most. The government's screwed us all over."

Silence fell again. Sawyer stared out of the window at the 'classy' neighbourhood; graffiti on the walls and broken bricks scattered over the pavement.

Sayid was a careful driver - but a slow one. They seemed to crawl through the depressing streets. The car had no air conditioning and quickly became stuffy, despite the night around them.

A sharp turn and they'd suddenly climbed into the depths of a black garage. The building was cool; the drop in temperature was welcome after sharing a car with these two. After Sayid pulled to a stop, Sawyer couldn't open the door fast enough. "Took you long enough to get here," he grumbled before getting out of the car.

He had to lean against the vehicle for support, his back against the bashed and faded yellow metal, but his legs were slowly coming to life again. Their awakening was certainly _slow_, however, so he was left to hobble towards the door in the corner of the garage. He shook Sayid away when the man once more tried to help him walk. He could do this alone.

He was still unspeakably glad when they entered a lift. Ana pressed the number '4' button and the lift groaned to life as it started to lurch upwards. With a joyful ping, they landed at the fourth floor and the doors slid open. They walked across the dingy corridor and into one of the flats.

It was dark in the living room, which they entered straight into. He could see a light spilling out of a small room, along with some nervous laughter. Other than that, the flat was dark.

The laughter stopped when Sayid flicked a switch by the door. Dim lighting turned on in the living room, revealing the sparse and bland furniture and bland decorating. Sawyer looked around at the room and just hoped that he wasn't expected to live in this place from now on. It was a run down dump -- a rat hole in a maze full of them.

Charlie appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, but he looked odd too. His untidy blonde hair was gone, replaced by a harsh buzz-cut, and he seemed thinner than Sawyer remembered -- his hip bones stuck out above the waistband of his too-large jeans.

But a recognisable smile broke out on his face when he saw Sawyer in the doorway -- he ran forwards and Sawyer suddenly found his arms unexpectedly full of an excitable Charlie. He was being _hugged_.

Frowning, he awkwardly returned it and patted Charlie's shoulder in an attempt to make this hug a little manlier. It made his arms hurt, but it was sort of nice to have some display of affection within this bleak environment.

Sayid stepped forwards and placed a hand on Charlie's elbow, guiding him back from Sawyer. Charlie glanced between Sayid and Sawyer in a way that reminded Sawyer of a hyper puppy.

Sayid moved his hands to Charlie's shoulders to hold his wide-eyed attention. "Sawyer's had a very stressful day, Charlie. He's yet to recall his past life here, and the time in prison has taken its toll on his body." He spoke slowly, in what was almost a hypnotist's voice. "He needs to sleep. Can you arrange somewhere for him to rest? I'm putting you in charge of his well-being."

Sawyer snorted, and wondered why he couldn't be in charge of his _own _well-being.

Charlie was still smiling, but that hyper energy had been sapped right out of him by Sayid's voice. Sawyer missed it, actually -- while jumping around like an acrobat had been a little over the top, it had been better than Ana and Sayid's muted behaviour. It proved he was still alive.

"Alright then. I'd give you a grand tour, but this is pretty much it." Charlie shrugged apologetically. "The bedroom's this way."

* * *

Charlie looked down as he entered the apartment's only bedroom and switched the light on. For once, he was painfully aware of how stark and Spartan the room was, with the mattresses on the floor and not a lot else. Their clothes were placed in neatly ironed piles at the end of the mattresses; the only other furniture in the room was an uncomfortable wicker chair that had long since been robbed of its cushion, sitting unloved in the corner. 

"I know it's not much," he said as he held the door open for Sawyer. He already had a dozen excuses in mind to explain the featureless room, but he quickly dismissed each and every one.

Sawyer looked around, eyebrows raising. "You don't say? There's dog kennels that've got more _stuff _that this." He looked towards Charlie, and Charlie couldn't read the emotions on his face. The idea that he could _read _Sawyer any more scared him. "You people seriously live like this?"

"Yeah. It's all we need. I mean, we have money. A little. Enough. We're not poor. It's just that there's more important stuff, Y'know?" The parts for Sayid's technology and Michael's computers and the bribes for informants.

"If you say so, kid." Sawyer shook his head and rolled his eyes and Charlie so badly wanted to stand up for this little bedroom, for this way of life that Sawyer himself had been happy with years ago. "Where did I sleep?"

Charlie automatically pointed to his own mattress with its too thin sheet - no blanket. He could remember nights spent there with Sawyer; how Sawyer would hold him close and murmur into his ear - he'd say the filthiest things he could think of, just to make Charlie blush. Then his hands would slip under Charlie's clothes, up his shirt and into his pants and Charlie had never known how they could seem to be _everywhere_, and he'd whisper, trying so hard not to laugh, that he knew a couple of ways to keep warm on nights like this.

But that was a different Sawyer, someone else entirely. This person that Sayid and Ana had brought back was a stranger.

Charlie still found himself blushing as he looked at the old bed and remembered some of the nights spent there. Judging from the curious look Sawyer gave him, he obviously wanted to know the cause of that blush. Charlie wasn't going to explain.

"Uh, there. There's fine. And are you hungry? Thirsty? Somethingy? Sayid's appointed me as your own personal butler, so I guess I have to do whatever you tell me to."

Once upon a time, that would've gotten a smirk from Sawyer, and the command to get on his knees or get on the bed or get in these handcuffs or get himself off while Sawyer watched. Now there was: "Yeah. I need a drink."

Charlie smiled and nodded eagerly and headed for the door. By the time he dutifully returned with a glass of water, Sawyer was asleep.

* * *

"I think we made a mistake. That's all I'm saying." 

"It's _not_, though. At all, man. You just keep mouthing off when you don't know anything."

"Oh, and you know everything, Michael? You haven't even left this damn apartment since I got here."

"Shut up, Ana. You don't _know_ anything. Anything about anything. I mean… _damn it_."

"I don't know anything? I know enough. I know you _claim _to be the perfect father, when you haven't even visited your own son since he left, not once. What sort of parent does that make you?"

"Keep your mouth shut. Don't you dare talk about Walt to me. Don't you dare."

Sayid's voice suddenly broke into the bickering that had been carrying on for several minutes. "I think we should focus on the task at hand."

Charlie leaned his head back. He was sitting in the chair in their bedroom, with the dark surrounding him as Sawyer slept peacefully. The door was open just a crack, enough to allow him to listen in on Michael, Ana and Sayid. They'd been arguing on and off for the past two hours, ever since Charlie and Sawyer had disappeared through here.

"At present, Sawyer is a liability. He has no ties to us or our cause, and yet he has been brought back here to our base. He could easily turn on us. As well as this, one of our own will not be able to think clearly in his presence -- we must assume from now on that Charlie is compromised. His interests lie with Sawyer's safety at the expense of the group's." As Sayid paused, Charlie waited for someone to step in and defend him. No one did.

"So…" Michael said. "We've lost Charlie, Sawyer's a lost cause, and Rose still isn't back. Where's that leave us?"

"God knows. Somewhere bad. I told you guys this idea sucked. We should've left him there to rot," Ana said. Charlie's eyes narrowed in the dark, and his hands tightened on the arms of the chair. He heard shuffling movement in the living room. "Anyone else want coffee?"

There were mumbles from the other two - a yes from Michael, a no from Sayid. Ana left the room.

"What're you thinking, Sayid?" Michael asked. His voice had lowered, so Charlie had to strain to hear it. "Do you agree with her? Should we've just left him there?"

Sayid didn't answer at first. Silence filled the room, stretching and twisting to fit into every single corner. Charlie nearly choked on it - he had to stifle a cough that tickled the back of his throat.

Eventually, Sayid spoke again, with his words measured carefully. "What I think we should or should not have done is of no significance. Now, all we can do is focus on what to do next."

"Look to the future? Right. I got that. What's the plan?"

"I'm not sure. I'm reluctant to organise anything in Rose's absence."

"Where _is _she anyway? She was distracting security, right? She should have been back by now."

"Yes. She should have." Sayid didn't elaborate on from that, but nothing more really needed to be said.

Charlie couldn't accept that, though. Rose was Rose. She'd come back and tell them all off for worrying. Any second now. Really.

He heard the kitchen door opening again. "Black coffee, right Michael? Couldn't remember if you took sugar or not." There was a soft clunk as two mugs were placed on the coffee table that Michael and Walt had built together, years ago. "So I didn't put any in. You want it, go get it yourself." There was a faint sound as Ana plopped herself back into her chair.

Michael muttered that it was fine like this, and none of them talked for a few moments.

"Sayid, with the Rose thing," Michael said, eventually. Ana made a small confused sound - somewhere between a grunt and a whine. "Are you serious? You really think… I mean, come on. This is _Rose_."

"And Sawyer was once _Sawyer_," Sayid answered calmly. "She's not infallible, Michael, regardless of how she presents herself." There was just the faintest slither of resentment there. Would Sayid even feel guilty or sorry if Rose disappeared, or would he view it as a career advancement? Charlie buried that thought before it could take root.

"What's going on?" Ana asked quickly, in alarm. "What's happened to Rose?"

"Nothing."

Charlie heard a chuckle from Sayid at the speed of Michael's answer. "We don't know yet, Ana. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps not. All we can do is wait."

"I'm not good with the 'wait and see' thing. I'd rather be out _doing_ something."

"Ana, I think--"

They never did find out what Sayid thought, because the front door was roughly pushed open. The crinkling sound of plastic shopping bags filled the silence.

"Well," Rose said loudly, as she closed the door behind her. Charlie smiled; after hearing the suspicions that she was gone - dead or captured - he didn't think that her voice had ever been sweeter. "I stopped in at the Co-Op in town to get those biscuits Sawyer used to like." There was the sound of confused movement in the living room as she shed her coat and pulled up a chair. "I hope our boy's here?"

Disregarding that it would make Sawyer explode to hear himself referred to as anyone's 'boy', Charlie looked over at Sawyer, who was sleeping peacefully on the mattress closest to him.

"He's here," Sayid confirmed.

"And it all went fine?"

"As well as could be expected, yes. We hit one hitch with a security guard, but Ana dealt with him." Rose made a sound of approval when Sayid paused. "I sent him to get some rest. He's through in the bedroom now."

"That sounds perfect. Michael, would you get me some of that coffee, please?" Scuffling as Michael stood up and walked away. "And Charlie's with him?"

"Yes. From what I understand, he was lucky that both he and Sawyer managed to escape in fact from the Program. The Cleaners were there."

"But they're both okay?"

"Largely, yes. However… Sawyer has kept the imposed memories that were programmed into him. He doesn't seem to remember his life here."

"Not even our Charlie?" Rose asked, and she sounded so worried.

"No, not even him."

Rose muttered something to herself. A scrape was dragged along the floor as she pushed her chair back. Footsteps brought her closer to the bedroom, but it took Charlie a couple of seconds to register that she was planning on checking in on him. Fuck. He could let her catch him eaves-dropping.

He dove onto his mattress, beside Sawyer, slipping under the cover and closing his eyes just as she opened the door. He kept his breathing deep and steady, matching the rhythm of Sawyer's breaths. Sawyer's breath ghosted over his face, heavy and swamping. There was a part of him that wanted to lean in closer and inhale Sawyer's scent again.

He'd needed this for a long time, even if it wasn't real - without Sawyer there, it had felt like someone had snatched away a vital part of him, like his leg. Without Sawyer, he'd just been limping around for years. But now he had this non-Sawyer back; identical on the outside but a completely different person inside. It was as if he'd been given a hollow leg to replace his lost one.

Rose stood in the doorway for a while and watched them. When she was speaking, there was a warm smile in her voice. "They're going to be fine. I can tell these things."

Then she closed the door fully and the room was once again plunged into darkness. Charlie stayed where he was for a few seconds, watching Sawyer's face and wishing, wishing so hard, that he could travel back in time and get his Sawyer back.

This wasn't him, though, so he needed to stop pooling himself and pull away. He awkwardly sat upon the mattress, and then felt the warmth of Sawyer's arm around his waist.

He glanced down at where it was holding him, loose enough that he could easily break away if he wanted to. That was a very big 'if'. When he didn't immediately lie back down, Sawyer grumbled a complaint then tugged at him. He lost his balance and fell heavily back against the mattress - it was impossible to tell if Sawyer was awake or asleep or dreaming or what.

But as he lay on his back, Sawyer shifted closer and cuddled up next to him. Despite knowing that this was _fakefakefake_, Charlie smiled and closed his eyes, curling back in towards Sawyer.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Sawyer woke up, there was light streaming into the room by the curtain less windows. He groaned as it hit his eyes, drawing him out of sleep quickly. The sounds of movement and people talking also filtered in through the window, along with the heavy scent of spices and sugar.

It was that smell that kept him grounded, that reminded him of last night's events because it was so exotic and definitely not something that you'd wake up to in a hotel. He wished he didn't remember what had happened, but he did and so it was with a groan that he opened his eyes.

And found himself face to face with a sleeping Charlie.

And realised that the warmth against him was that of the other's body.

And discovered that his arms were loosely around Charlie.

And that his hand was on Charlie's ass.

His _heterosexual_ hand was on Charlie's extremely _male _ass.

Well, fuck.

He remedied the situation as quickly as he could - removed the hand, pulled his arms back, rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He realised his heart was pounding. Then he realised, with a sickening jolt, that he was hard. _Morning wood, you asshole_, he told himself. _Morning wood, don't act like it's anything important. Fag._

Right. Nothing to do with Charlie and his hyper energy or his untameable smile when he'd first seen Sawyer out of the Program or the way his body twisted and bent when he was fighting.

Sawyer closed his eyes and swore repeatedly in his mind, because what the hell was this? Had that dumb Iraqi screwed with his head during the transfer?

He looked over of Charlie and saw a flash of (_pinning you to the bed and kissing you lazily, in no rush with nothing to do, slipping my hand under your shirt and over your skin and we're still new at this, still young and still innocent, still exploring each others' bodies at a pace that seems so slow, and god, Charlie, you're so fucking pretty, did I ever tell you that?_)some long ago memory.

Sawyer pulled his gaze away from Charlie and stared determinedly up at the ceiling, not wanting to even think about what he'd just seen.

His cheeks flaming, he slipped out from under the sheets. There was no way his hard-on was going away by itself for a while yet, no matter how many wrinkly old grannies he tried to think of to turn himself off. That flashing image was still at the front of his mind, with Charlie pinned underneath him, hands roaming.

He shuddered and walked towards the window. Reaching it, he undid the latch and tugged the glass pane up. It caught, briefly, having not been opened for year, but then rattled quickly upwards. He jammed it open. The sounds from the street below became louder, the smells stronger.

Stalls were scattered along the street, hugging the walls, with sacks of herbs, fake Rolexes and ratty clothes being offered to the masses milling past. On the corner opposite their building, there was a small stand offering candy floss and pancakes. It was a frantic scene, the complete opposite of the desert wasteland they'd driven through last night.

The 'wasteland' seemed to have been utilised, in fact -- the broken bricks were used to prop up stalls and weigh down the clothing to protect it from shoplifters and the wind. The 'graffiti' on the walls that last night he'd taken to be gang signs and tags, turned out to be price lists.

Sawyer leaned against the side of the window frame and looked out at the scene. A woman with long brown hair weaved through the crowd, triumphantly clutching a plastic bag containing her most recent purchase. A nearby bald man was haggling down the price of a watch from one of the sellers.

The sellers were a spectacle in themselves - as exotic and varied as the products they were selling. From old fat men in dirty t-shirts that didn't quite cover their beer-bellies to young and enthusiastic women, gossiping together between sales. Charlie and Ana had complained of a corrupt government and extreme poverty, but Sawyer didn't see that here.

"'morning," Charlie murmured sleepily, still lying on the mattress. Sawyer glanced over his shoulder at him, but the sight of Charlie lying wantonly like that made his cock pulse and demand attention, so he quickly turned back around to stare out of the window in horror.

"I need to shower," he said quickly. What he _needed _was a quiet place to jerk off while thinking of _women_, with their rounded curves and soft bodies and hips. Not the way Charlie's ass had felt firm under his hand when he'd woken up first that morning.

"Oh, right. Yeah." Charlie sat up and shook the sleep from himself, like a wet dog. "'course. Sorry," he mumbled, crawling over to the end of the bed. He picked a folded t-shirt off the top of the pile of clothing at the end of the mattress. Sawyer tried not to stare as he changed into it.

He failed. A lot.

When Charlie stood up, Sawyer noted that there was a ragged hole near the bottom of his t-shirt that you could see his navel through. "Bathroom's just this way."

He climbed off the mattress with a groaned complained and started to head towards the door. Sawyer turned away from the market scene outside and left the window open as he walked after Charlie. On the way, he had to focus too much to stop his eyes from drifting down.

The shower refused to give him hot water, sticking to lukewarm at best and ice cold at worst, regardless of how he twisted at the handles. He'd eventually given up and made do with what he had. He got rid of his erection as quickly as he could, feeling dirty because of the way it was Charlie that he kept seeing when he closed his eyes. Once he'd finished, he washed himself about five times and still didn't feel clean again. The feel of rough stubble instead of his usual long hair both annoyed and upset him -- the hole in his skin where the IV tube should have been just _hurt_.

He'd come out of the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist, to find a set of clothes waiting for him outside - nondescript jeans and a white t-shirt. They were still better than the ragged clothes he'd woken up wearing in prison, so he put them on without a word.

Less than an hour later, he found himself being led by Charlie towards 'the Computer Room'. The rest of the apartment was empty, apart from Michael, but Charlie couldn't or wouldn't (Sawyer suspected the latter) tell him where the others had gone.

"It's a little untidy -- Michael practically lives in here - but I thought you'd want to be shown 'round? It might…" _Bring your memories back_ - Charlie didn't have to finish the sentence.

Sawyer nodded, and indicated at the flimsy-looking door. "Let's go, then." He didn't know a damn thing about computers, other than the basic 'point a mouse and click' but he wasn't about to let Charlie realise that.

Charlie opened the door and they entered a musky cave -- no windows, and filled with the scent of BO and aftershave. Tiny green and red lights flashed in the dark, shining out happily from the various machines in the room. Charlie reached for a lamp and switched it on.

The weak light illuminated a laptop on a wooden desk -- on the floor beneath the desk stood a grey box. It was featureless, with nothing about it really standing out. It had a lid: Sawyer could just about make out the line between the lid and the main body of the object.

Charlie must have spotted him looking at it, because he stepped towards it quickly. "That's our scanner. Sayid made it; we had a bloody mental time trying to find all the right parts." He crouched down next to it, and flapped his hand to indicate that Sawyer ought to kneel too.

Sawyer did, cautiously, and dropped to his knees beside Charlie. In this position, he wondered if they were about to start worshipping the box.

Instead Charlie reached out and opened it. As the lid slumped back, flat against the side of the box, bright lights came on inside it – florescent strips along the bottom and up the sides. It was empty at the moment, and just reminded Sawyer of a cool box.

"See, you put stuff in _here_," Charlie said, hitting the side of the scanner. He then hopped up onto the computer chair by the desk, and switched the laptop on. "And it turns up here. And then you can put it wherever you want. It's how we get stuff into the Program, y'know?" No, Sawyer definitely didn't 'know' at all, but he nodded all the same.

Charlie rolled over on the chair, skidding over the floor towards the corner. "And we've got the suits here. Though 'suits' is kinda the wrong word for it. Couple of visors, wires, gloves. We've got enough to send three people in at once, and that's all you need, really." He bit his lip, then glanced back at Sawyer over his shoulder. "Do you want to try it out?" he asked.

Sawyer didn't answer at first. _Did _he want to? Virtual reality… he was a little too busy getting use to the _real _reality – and he hadn't even left this apartment yet.

On the other hand, Charlie looked so excited that Sawyer wasn't sure if he even wanted to say no. He didn't think he was physically able to, and that was something that sent alarm bells ringing cruelly in his ears. He didn't stop to examine it, and instead just grinned. "Sure."

Charlie bounced a little and grinned. "Excellent. I'll go and get Michael to help, then."

Before Sawyer could think about objecting, Charlie had slipped past him out of the room. Michael was supposed to be sleeping and Sawyer got the feeling that the guy didn't do that nearly as often as he should.

Still, Michael appeared soon enough, with only slightly bleary eyes. Charlie was moving excitably along behind him – Sawyer had no idea how he managed to be that hyper all the time, especially after the fight yesterday.

Michael smiled tiredly. "Hey. Charlie said you're ready for your first trip?" he asked, as he pushed the chair back over from where Charlie had abandoned it on the wrong side of the room.

Sawyer shrugged. "Well then, guess I must be." If Charlie said it, it must be true – was that the mentality he'd slipped into already? Christ.

Charlie grabbed his arm and steered him over to the suits, talking about health and safety and who knew what else while helping Sawyer with the equipment. He had to stretch up and get on his toes in order to reach Sawyer's head to put the sensors there, with small pieces of tape that felt like plasters on his stubbly head. Sawyer found himself squatting down to help Charlie get them on, and didn't even feel ridiculous about the positioning.

Charlie slipped the visor over his eyes for him, and everything went blue. Charlie looked like a goofy little alien like this; blue skin and blue hair.

"Here's your gloves," Charlie said as he passed him a pair, think and black that felt heavy. "Well… Technically they're Sayid's, but I think they'll fit, roughly. You should be able to feel something against your fingers? And your palms? Sort of like sandpaper."

Sawyer put them on and flexed his hands. He flinched a little – yeah, that definitely felt like sandpaper over his skin. "Couldn't ol' Sayid have designed them a little better? Feels like he's trying to take my damn hands off."

Charlie tried to look stern, but Sawyer could see the faintest hint of a smile, tinged in blue. It'd take just a little more to get that hint to turn into a full, real smile.

But then Charlie was moving away and quickly adjusting his own wires and putting on his gloves and slipping that odd looking visor onto his face. Sawyer was about to comment on how pathetic they both looked, when Charlie ordered him to slip his feet into the footrests on the floor. Sawyer did so, sceptically. Seconds later, Michael gave them a vague warning, and the whole room disappeared.

* * *

Charlie closed his eyes the second Michael said, "Okay." He never left them open while he was 'porting inside the Program. Doing so made him dizzy, and the day's events were already having that effect on him. Being this close to Sawyer but being unable to touch and tease him like he was used to was unbearable. It wasn't the sex he missed, not really. It was Sawyer's arm around his shoulders as they walked _anywhere_, and brushing Sawyer's arm when they talked, and sitting in his lap in the living room when they made plans.

He brushed the memories away and opened his eyes. They were in a wooded area, in a small clearing. Trees crowded in around them, forming a thick and menacing wall. Between the trees, pitch black shadows stretched into the distance. The darkness in the wood seemed to go on forever, but the clearing they stood in was perfectly lit, as if it belonged in a Disney movie. A clump of white flowers sat to the side, next to a tree stump.

Charlie smiled as he recognized this place – Sawyer used to take him here to get away from all of the chaos on the outside, with the Sleepers and their politics. They'd eat and joke around in the clearing, then Sawyer would lead him into the depths of the forest, shedding their clothes as they went.

Still, there was no need to tell Sawyer that. Charlie cleared his throat hurriedly. "We usually train here. It's also a pretty nice place to come to, to… y'know. Get away for a bit." He walked further into the clearing and spun around to see Sawyer.

To be perfectly honest, Sawyer didn't seem too impressed. "It's a little on the wooden side, isn't it? Where's civilization? I kind of like my alone time with more people around."

Charlie shrugged. "Sorry. We're all anti-social hermits."

"Yeah, right. _You're_ a hermit?" Sawyer rolled his eyes. "Think you can get Mikey up there to give us a change in scenery?"

He'd barely finished the sentence when the forest faded around them. They ended up in a quiet street instead – there was a newsagents at the corner and several small shops in between. A few pedestrians made their slow way up the street, but they weren't real; they weren't _going_ anywhere. Pieces of coding don't have lives. No home to return to, no job to be late for, no children to look after, no boyfriend to meet.

Charlie sighed. "Does this meet your standards, then?" Charlie asked, once the dizziness faded – he'd forgotten to close his eyes.

Sawyer kicked at an empty can that was lying abandoned on the road. "Yeah, I'd say so. Thanks, Mike." Somehow, he was able to make each and every word sound sarcastic.

"Good. Then we can get on with our training."

"Wait, what? I didn't sign up to get trained. You said you were just showing me 'round."

"I lied." Charlie grinned and stepped to the side, sitting on the dusty kerb of the pavement. Sawyer glared at him. "Relax, it's easy."

Sort of, if this worked right. If it didn't, Sawyer was about to get his ass kicked.

He glanced to the left as a faceless figure appeared. It was very simple coding – basically, the 'stick man' of virtual reality – but it made for a good punch bag. It could also quite easily turn the tables on you, if you weren't careful.

Sawyer let out a laugh through his nose as the stick-man moved slowly down the street towards him. "You're serious? _This _is your version of 'training'?" Sawyer asked, grinning. Charlie nodded seriously. "I'm new at this, but I'm not that new. I can take something weightier than a goddamn stickman."

Charlie smirked. "Alright. Let's bet on it." And maybe he really would let the figure beat Sawyer up. A little. Just enough to let him win the bet. Sawyer looked intrigued by the idea, so Charlie quickly dreamt up some stakes – neither of them had any money to bet with, so that option was out. "If you win against him, I'll wash the group's dishes for a month. If he wins, you have to."

The stickman had frozen mid-step; Michael must have paused him while they were coming to an arrangement. "Alright. _And_, if I win, I get the bed tonight. If I lose, you do."

Charlie struggled to stay smiling, but it was difficult as he'd more or less forced Sawyer to share the bed last night. "Okay, deal. Shake on it?"

Sawyer nodded and took a few steps over Charlie. They shook hands – Sawyer's grip was firm and commanding, as it had always been. "Hope you like sleeping on the floor," Sawyer said.

"Hope _you _like washing dishes."

They grinned at each other, and Sawyer held his hand just a second too long, just a little too tight. When Sawyer broke the handshake, Charlie looked up at the cloudy sky above them. "Michael? Let's go."

Sawyer backed up, skimming backwards, as the stick man rushed to life and moved forwards. Sawyer wasn't even back in his starting position when the stickman knocked into him and rugby tackled him to the ground.

He dropped with a grunt and the two skimmed over the tarmac, like throwing stones over a lake. They thudded down to the ground, with Sawyer laughing hysterically.

The laughter stopped when the stickman immediately punched Sawyer in the gut. It was replaced with a pissed off frown. Charlie sat forwards, arms leaning on his legs as he watched. _Come on… _he thought – he knew that this would lose him the bet, but he still so badly wanted his theory about this to be right. _Come on_.

Sawyer head-butted the stick-man then pulled his arm back to throw a messy punched at the jaw. It wasn't the clearly defined fighting that Charlie was used to seeing from Sawyer. It was untidy and untrained; it belonged in a bar brawl. Sawyer was still fighting using his new memories.

And that technique was _not _working. While the punch briefly threw the figure off target, it only lasted for a second. Then it threw a punch of its own, hard and harsh and painful. Charlie could hear the _thud _from where he sat.

The pure black stump of a hand collided with Sawyer's face. Sawyer's body went limp and Charlie stood up, alarmed and ready to step in. He hadn't meant for this to happen, for Sawyer to get _hurt_. He'd thought… something. He didn't even know what. Something dumb and stupid and so typically _him_. No wonder everyone thought he was useless.

Just as he was ready to break up the fight, the tension reappeared in Sawyer's body. He opened his eyes and smirked as the stickman was about to deliver another punch. His hand moved to catch the stickman's wrist on its descent - he caught it and held it back easily. A smile melted onto Charlie's face and he jumped, unable to hold back his excitement.

Using his strength against his opponent, Sawyer flipped them over to pin him down. He held his wrist tightly, and the figure struggled uselessly beneath him. Sawyer grinned.

He could have ended it there and then, but he chose not to – he _chose _to draw it out and enjoy himself; he let go of the figure's wrist and launched himself backwards. With Michael's quick-fingered help, he remained weightless and soared through the air. A neat flip later, he'd landed lightly on his feet – his eyes were wide and he looked stunned at what he'd just done, but he still managed to give Charlie a cocky wink.

Charlie looked up and said, "Michael? 'Port a stick in." He spoke quietly so presumably Sawyer couldn't hear him. In any case, Sawyer was distracted – exchanging experienced blows with the stick figure.

The focused look on his face fractured, for just a second, but it was long enough for the stick-man to backhand him hard. It left a flushed pink mark behind, which would fade to a bruise if this was the real world.

Grunting in annoyance, Sawyer's hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out the stick that Michael had just scanned in. With an expert thrust of his hand, disguised as a short rabbit punch, the stick was stabbed right into the stick-man's chest. There was a glimpse of black inky blood, then nothing as Sawyer pressed the right button.

He took one step back, two steps, staring at the blank space in shock. He then looked down at the stick in his hand in wonder, at that the splashes of black ink there. _Then_, and only then, he started laughing.

Chuckling, really, but it spread down into big belly laughs within seconds. Rolling his eyes, he sat down on the edge of the opposite kerb from where Charlie was standing. Charlie smiled indulgently. He'd been right. He'd just _known _that Sawyer would remember how to fight, given the chance. That sort of skill wasn't just something you forgot.

And Sawyer had _remembered_; that meant there was still hope.

Sawyer's laughter had faded. He sat there staring at Charlie, completely serious. "You lost the bet."

"Yeah." Charlie grinned and nodded. "Yeah, I guess I did."

He wasn't feeling quite so smug and happy about his loss of the bet when he trudged through to the bedroom, after spending half an hour doing dishes.

And now he had to sleep in that dumb wicker chair. He couldn't even steal someone else's mattress for the night, seeing as everyone, including Michael for once, was asleep (Ana and Michael shared, occasionally, when they had to).

The room was dark and filled with the sound of sleeping breaths. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The lights were off, but he managed to make his way through without stubbing his toe or falling over anyone, so that was a small achievement. He reached the chair and tugged his t-shirt off.

After that, there was nothing left to do but curl up and try to get comfortable.

'Try' being the exact right word.

He shifted and turned and shifted again, but it wasn't until a while later that he realised he was being watched. He hadn't noticed it at first, because the dark had hidden the fact that Sawyer was awake. But he definitely had his eyes open, and he was definitely staring at him.

Charlie froze, as if Sawyer was a dinosaur and would therefore be unable to see him without movement.

Eventually, this theory turned out to be untrue because Sawyer edged over to one side of the mattress and gestured in the dark at the space. "Come on; stop trying to guilt-trip me," he grumbled.

Trying not to look too happy, Charlie moved over and slipped under the covers. "Why would I stop trying, mate? It worked, so it was obviously a bloody good plan."

Sawyer grunted, moodily. "Just keep to your side of the bed, alright?"

Charlie agreed, but neither of them mentioned it when they woke up spooned together the following morning, Sawyer's bare chest against Charlie's back.


	7. Chapter 7

A month passed like that, with them sharing the bed and Sawyer making fun of him whenever he had to slump over to the sink and clean the dishes. Charlie ran Sawyer through a few different programs, just getting him used to everything again. Sawyer seemed to remember just about everything to do with his fighting technique.

But that was all, it seemed. He was still baffled by Michael's coding and couldn't care less about the politics they indulged in. He'd only been out of the apartment once or twice, when he'd accompany Charlie down to the market on Saturdays, but that was it.

He seemed a little too interested in the Program, though – he'd told Charlie a few days ago that he preferred it to the real world. That made Charlie's skin crawl, but he couldn't pin down an exact reason. As he slipped the visor on, closed his eyes, and nodded at Michael, he couldn't help but feel that maybe he should have been encouraging Sawyer to integrate with the real world instead of continuing with his 'training'.

He opened his eyes and found himself standing in the middle of a shopping mall. There was a neat crowd of people milling around; a couple of shop fronts; a few escalators. Charlie'd guess that they were up about three stories. He smiled, able to feel the strands of his hair tickling against his forehead; that was the one thing he _loved _about the Program, having his hair back.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the sudden rush of light and so many people, he looked over to Sawyer, who seemed to be quite impressed by the setting. He was looking around with a grin on his face.

"So what d'you want to do?" Charlie asked, but he already knew the answer: beat something up.

The answer he got was therefore fairly unexpected: "You," Sawyer said, before Charlie raised an eyebrow. It was then that Sawyer seemed to realise what he'd said, because he shook his head and backtracked quickly. "No, you asshole. I mean I wanna _fight _you. Think I could beat you now."

Oh. Well, that sounded painful. Charlie thought that he preferred the idea of Sawyer just _doing_ him.

But he shook his head. "Nah, definitely not. I can take on four Cleaners."

"Yeah, and get the shit beaten out of you."

"Oi, I saved your life, remember?"

"That was ages ago."

"That was a month."

"Yeah. Ages."

"Piss off, that's no time at all."

They'd started circling each other by now, smiling as they spoke. Charlie still wasn't sure if this was a brilliant idea, but he seemed to have consented to it without even meaning to.

"It's enough, believe me. Come on. First to get the other pinned wins."

"Pinned for five seconds."

"Easy."

"Alright then. Mike, put me on manual?" Charlie asked, and was pleased by the look of confusion on Sawyer's face. There were times when it was nice that Sawyer didn't remember any of this stuff; it made him feel smart. However, those times were greatly overruled by the times that Charlie just wanted his Sawyer back.

He felt that overwhelming rush of control as Michael did as he asked. Charlie didn't really like it – it was complicated to have to focus on suspending gravity yourself while also trying to keep your mind in the fight, but otherwise Michael wouldn't be able to do this all at once.

He nodded, and didn't give Sawyer any warning at all before he'd launched himself into the air, a spinning kick directed at Sawyer's head. Sawyer ducked it easily, crouching down to the ground just as Charlie had expected him to. He released his hold on gravity at just the right moment – and fell down heavily on top of Sawyer.

Sawyer flattened down onto the ground with a grunt, as his legs tried and failed to hold up Charlie's weight on his back. Charlie lost his balance and hit the ground too, but managed to slip into a roll as he fell. He bounced back to his feet, only a little bit hurt but a big bit dizzy.

As he was trying to convince his vision to stop spinning and impersonating a roundabout, Sawyer got up and dove at him. They both went flying like a set of skittles. Charlie's back hit into the wall next to the mall's lifts. Sawyer trapped him there, managed to pin him there, but it didn't last long before Charlie slipped away and ran off, free again. Laughing to himself, Sawyer chased after him.

The crowd around them didn't even react.

They continued like that, mock fighting like a pair of schoolboys, until Charlie lost track of time. They traded punched and kicks but nothing serious, nothing designed to _hurt_. Once or twice Charlie succeeded in pinning Sawyer, but he'd always jump up and run away before they could count to five. He didn't want this to end.

Sawyer caught his waist and clung on as he tried running past him, laughing. Together they lost their balance and went tumbling down the escalator, a flailing mass of limbs. Sawyer hit the ground first, and Charlie had the good fortune to land on top of him – his fall was cushioned by strong muscle and tanned skin.

He shifted to pin Sawyer properly, while the other was still dazed from the fall, but his hyper mood fractured when he realised how _hard _Sawyer was. The mood disappeared entirely when Sawyer's hands didn't move from where they'd landed carefully on his ass. Charlie froze, and just stayed perched on top of Sawyer, panting for air. He had to say _something_, didn't he?

But his mind seemed to have frozen as much as his body had, because all he could process was that Sawyer was staring at his lips – _Sawyer _was staring at his _lips_. Long moments passed between them. Was Sawyer about to kiss him? Really?

Suddenly his world flipped over and he found himself on his back. He was frowning, and still trying to work out what had just happened when he heard Sawyer's voice, low by his ear. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I win."

Charlie kept lying against the tiled floor of the mall. He glared at Sawyer, briefly. "Cheater."

* * *

_What the hell were you doing?, _Sawyer asked himself as he helped Charlie clear away the dishes from the table that night. He'd been asking himself that one question ever since he'd 'cheated' during their fight. His hands were still convinced that they could feel Charlie's ass underneath them. Stupid hands.

But, _damn_, this place was bad for him. There was something in the water or they were drugging his food or something. Anything – any excuse that would stop this from happening, or at least stop it from being his fault. He wasn't gay, alright? He refused to be. Yet, as Charlie stood by his sink, his rambling voice accompanied by the splash of water and the clink of cutlery, Sawyer couldn't stop the way his gaze roamed over the body in front of him, exploring every inch.

Ordinarily, he didn't deny himself anything. If he wanted something, he went for it. If he wanted a woman, he went for her. But men? No. No way.

He could still remember perfectly well what his father had had to say about gay people: G_oddamn fags, ain't good for nothing 'cept gettin' themselves sick. Don't worry, kid. AIDS'll get 'em. Just wait and see._

Sawyer wasn't going to be a 'goddamn fag'. It'd make his father turn circles in his grave. Murdering bastard or not, Sawyer still wanted his old man to be proud of him. That was only natural, wasn't it?

He couldn't be proud of these _urges _that Sawyer had been having for the past month. No one could. They were unnatural, sick, and so very _wrong_. It was all Charlie's fault. If Charlie would just stop prancing around like a pansy, Sawyer'd be able to go back to normal.

But,_ no_, that was asking for way too much from Charlie. Instead he had to sleep next to him shirtless, and agree to play-fights, and look at Sawyer with those deep blue eyes of his and –

"Sawyer?" Sayid asked, and Sawyer could detect a hint of amusement in his voice. "Is everything alright? You've been staring at Charlie for quite some time now." That prompted a round of giggles from around the table, even while Rose attempted to hush them. Sawyer realised that he'd zoned out, holding a pile of plates and staring blankly through the open door to the kitchen, where Charlie was singing along to the radio now.

He scowled at Sayid. "Everything's just fine, Sa_yid_. It'd go a lot quicker if you got off your Iraqi ass and helped out."

"Now, Sawyer," Rose scaled, while Sayid just smirked. "I won't have that sort of language in my house – you know that, honey. And Sayid, don't tease him. You're not in preschool any more."

No, they definitely weren't. So why the hell was she talking to them like they weren't even five yet? It was patronising, and Sawyer _hated _being patronised. "Shut up, Rose."

A stunned silence fell over the table – Sayid's smirk disappeared and clouds gathered on his face. He'd said worse stuff to everyone else, but this was different. This was Rose.

Still, screw 'em right? He needed a drink. "And grow some damn hair while you're at it. You and Ana look like you're cross-dressing." That was a low blow, but he just turned away.

He headed towards the kitchen and kicked the door shut behind him. It slammed shut and rattled in the doorframe. Charlie turned around, hands coated with frothy washing up liquid. He smiled, but it was uneasy. Sawyer supposed that Charlie had a right to be unnerved like that, with the frustrated anger coming off of Sawyer in thick waves, and the way he'd slammed the door behind him.

"What's going on? Things were starting to sound a little…" Charlie shrugged and turned back to the washing up.

Crossing the room, Sawyer dumped the plate into the suds-filled water with a heavy splash. There were no leftovers to have to deal with – there never were. You didn't waste food here.

He positioned himself next to Charlie, drying the dishes with a thin blue towel. His movements were jagged, so he wasn't surprised that Charlie was tense and jumpy.

"Sawyer?" Charlie asked, worried when Sawyer didn't immediately answer. _Sensitive little gay-boy; he'd probably cry if one of his Barbies went missing_, his father's voice hissed in his mind. "What happened? Did one of that lot say something?"

Charlie moved away from the sink, ready to go and pick a fight with Ana or Sayid; ready to go and defend Sawyer's honour. Christ, no. Sawyer didn't need to be rescued. He wasn't like Charlie, wasn't a limp-wristed _girl_. Wouldn't be. Wouldn't allow Charlie do that to him.

Yet, when Charlie tried to walk to the door, and Sawyer caught his wrist and held it, small shivers rushed up his spine from the contact. There was such a large part of him that _wanted_ this. That part wanted to shame his father in the afterlife, wanted to give in, give up, and do whatever he wanted.

(_fag, fag, fag, fag, fag_)

His hand hadn't let go of Charlie's wrist yet – he wasn't sure if he could even do that. Charlie's eyes were wide and questioning, but he couldn't look at them for more than a few seconds at a time. His attention was drawn, moth to the flame, down to Charlie's mouth all he (_fag_) wanted to do (_pansy_) was kiss (_fucking gay shithole_) him.

"Sawyer? Tell me what's –" Sawyer placed a finger over Charlie's mouth to shut him up. It worked, because Charlie froze immediately, mouth half-open. Sawyer could feel the tickle of his breath by his finger.

He glared at him. "I hate you." There, he'd said it. That made it true.

Charlie looked a little scared now, and tried to back away from him. Sawyer still had his wrist and held it tightly; Charlie would have bruises there in the morning but, in the meantime, he wasn't going to go anywhere. "You hear me? I hate you. You and your kind. Disgrace. Gonna die off, though. My dad said so. Gonna die off 'cause of AIDS."

He felt light-headed now, the world spinning around him so that he couldn't think clearly; he couldn't think at all. He moved his hand from Charlie's lips to his chin, holding him still.

Then he kissed him, softly at first, and felt Charlie respond immediately. God, that was good – that was what he'd needed for one full, desperate month. Charlie's lips were soft, like a woman's; Sawyer could almost forget that this was a man he was kissing. If it wasn't for the burn of stubble against his chin, he would've been able to fool himself completely into thinking that Charlie was a man and that this was okay.

Charlie's wet hands gripped his shoulders, tight through the t-shirt, and Sawyer walked him backwards quickly until his back thudded against the counter top. He pressed Charlie's body there while trying to work out what they were doing, what he was doing.

Charlie's legs lifted up and locked around his waist – Sawyer's hands moved under him and held him up, glad that he'd started doing press-ups again in the mornings. Charlie broke the kiss and looked bewildered, but Sawyer just looked a little flushed. Right now, he was preoccupied with trying to work out how they could get to the bedroom without having to pass by the rest of the group.

Deciding that they couldn't, he instead released Charlie and indicated for him to jump down. The second he did, Sawyer spun him around and bent him over, so that he was crouched over the kitchen sink. It was right about then that he realise he didn't have a clue what they were supposed to do next. He knew the basics of gay sex, but it was as basic as slurred insults in bar fights (_"you like takin' it up the ass then, do ya?"_).

That knowledge probably wasn't enough, he realised as he stayed neatly behind Charlie. He bit at the side of Charlie's neck, trying to work this—

_"I love you, Charlie. You better remember that, 'cause I'm not going to say it that often."_

_Curled up naked together, in front of the radiator, with Sawyer slowly tracing circles on Charlie's chest._

_"I know. Don't worry – I can say it enough for both of us."_

_"Alright. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love—"_

_"Hey, stop! You'll ruin it."_

_"Will not."_

_"Will too."_

The flashing image faded and Sawyer finally snapped out of the insane mood he'd been in. He backed away from Charlie, disgusted with himself. He was supposed to be _straight_. Maybe it was about time he started acting like it.

"Fag."


	8. Chapter 8

It was all moving too fast for Charlie to understand. First Sawyer was slamming doors, then staring at him weirdly, then kissing him, then _this_. Then 'fag'. He just shook his head, unable to speak initially. Maybe Sawyer was kidding around? Making an especially unfunny joke?

Charlie doubted it, so he straightened up and grabbed the towel by the sink. Using it, he methodically wiped his hands to get rid of the soapsuds on them. Then, he turned to start drying the dishes, without ever acknowledging Sawyer.

"Did you hear me?" Sawyer yelled.

Charlie told himself to keep calm, and swirled the towel around the inside of one of the plates. "Yes, Sawyer," he confirmed, but he didn't turn around. "I heard you calling me a 'fag'." He dried the outside of the plate, then stretched up to place it in the right cabinet. He reached for the next plate. "Which, I'd say, is pretty ironic c-considering that it was you who just kissed me."

Sawyer let out a furious sound behind him – a grunt, a groan, a grumble, all rolled up into one angry package. "That was _your _fault."

Charlie smiled to himself, even though his hands were starting to shake a little. "It was? 'cause I tricked you into doing it, right? I tricked you into trying to fuck me?" He was fairly sure that he was going to drop the plate he was cleaning.

"Yeah! You and Abu out there – you fiddled with my head. Did _something _to it when you brought me out of the Program."

"We didn't do a thing, Sawyer. This is all you." Damn, his voice cracked a little there. He frowned and stared down at the white plate he was drying.

"No. It's _not_. I'm not like that. I wouldn't…" He didn't even seem to be able to say it.

That was what got Charlie to turn around, finally. He still clutched the plate in his hand, tight enough to make his knuckle hurt. It was a stab to the gut to see Sawyer like this, his face twisted in fear and hate. But it wasn't Sawyer, not his Sawyer, not the real one. Charlie had, by now, given up on the idea of his Sawyer returning.

Instead he was left with this – a fake, an impostor, a phoney. How could he looked so similar and yet be so _different_?

"You wouldn't what?" he snapped. "You wouldn't have sex with a guy? Believe me, Sawyer. You would." He walked forwards, into Sawyer's personal space. He looked ready to kick-start some violence. Maybe he would. He was _that _angry. "You used to. Every single chance we got. And, just so you stop trying to cling to that 'straight' mentality, you weren't always the one topping." Sawyer's eyes widened in alarmed confusion. "Yeah, Sawyer. I've fucked you, mate. I've had you on your knees, your mouth on my dick and loving it. So who here's the 'fag'?"

"You're making that up. I would never—"

"Yeah, you would." Charlie grinned maliciously, watching Sawyer squirm. Good. Although he hated that all of the sweet gentle memories he had of them together were being tarnished and abused, they worked. He needed to get back at Sawyer, so the floodgates had opened on years worth of frustration and annoyance. "Every. Single. Ni—"

Sawyer punched him before he could finish the last word. The punch left his cheekbone aching, and the plate he was holding was released from his hand – it shot off at random and smashed on the floor, a good distance away. A loud sound rattled through the room as it shattered.

Charlie stayed looking down, not moving yet from the position the punch had forced him into – head bowed to the side, body shrinking in on itself. He couldn't see Sawyer like this, but Sawyer seemed to have frozen too, shocked at himself. Charlie was just stunned – Sawyer had just hit him. _Hit _him. He'd never done that before; he'd known better than to try.

The kitchen door opened and a set of concerned faces looked in. Rose, Sayid, Ana. Presumably, Michael was back with his computers. Charlie looked up to them, blushing and ashamed for reasons he didn't know. Sawyer was the one that had hit him – Sawyer should have been embarrassed, not Charlie.

Rose gasped, as she saw the fast-forming bruise on Charlie's face. "What's been going on in here?"

"Sawyer hit me," Charlie said, his voice blank and empty. _Tell-tale_. "But it's fine. We—"

"That's not fine at all." Rose bustled forwards and took his hand, leading him away from Sawyer. She looked down at the smashed crockery on the floor, and hushed him when he started to apologise for it. "Sawyer, I think it's time for you to leave."

It was said quietly, but the command was there: 'get out now'. The insult was there too, unsaid: 'bastard'. Rose didn't need to say those things, she never had. With Rose, her power was stored within everything she _didn't _say.

Feeling his world slowly shattering, Charlie looked up and watched. He had to, if he wanted closure – if he wanted to let go of Sawyer once and for all. There was no going back from this. He pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, where Sawyer had punched it. It was swollen and felt hot to touch.

Sawyer looked lost for a moment, but that was soon covered up with defensive anger. "Believe me, oh _wise _leader, I wasn't planning on hanging around."

And with that, he stalked towards the door. Ana stepped to the side, out of his way, and a few seconds later the front door slammed shut behind him.

Charlie slumped loosely to the ground, unable to see how they'd got here. Things had been going great. Sawyer had seemed normal, and then… then _this_.

He could hear Rose murmuring empty promises to him and could feel the rub of her hand on his back. "You'll be okay, you'll be fine, shush," she whispered to him, before looking up and asking Sayid to check that Sawyer was really gone. Sayid nodded and silently left the apartment.

But she was right. He'd lived for an extremely long time clinging only to the hope that they'd find Sawyer and everything would go back to how it was. Maybe it was time for him for him to learn to be happy with everything how it _is_?

He nodded and smiled shakily to himself.

A few moments later, Sayid ran into the room. "He's taken my car."

* * *

He parked the car neatly up at the top of the hill. The radio still played – country tunes the claimed to be 'golden oldies'. He'd never heard any of them before. He wondered what would happen if he phoned in and asked for something from the '80s, the '90s. Probably nothing. It'd be like calling one of _his _stations and asking for Mozart.

'His' stations. They really weren't here, were they? They were back home, and Rose had made perfectly clear that his home wasn't here any more. He deserved that, though. Sitting in the driver's seat, he looked down at his hand and could _see _it as a fist, see it smashing into Charlie's angry face.

God, what the hell was wrong with him?

He grabbed the 6-pack of beer that was sitting in the passenger seat – he'd stop on the way to 'buy' it; he'd lifted it out of the store without paying, and the cashier hadn't tried to stop him, perhaps recognising the desperate look in his eyes – and opened the car door. Half-walking, half-stumbling, he moved to sit on the grass by the edge of the cliff. It was a pretty place. He'd bet teenagers came up here all the time to make out.

He wondered if he and Charlie ever had.

The idea made him groan uncomfortably, Charlie's words etched in his mind. '_Every. Single. Night.' _Along with that swirled his father's words, confusing but constant insults. '_Fag. Pansy. Fairy._' His head felt too full – with Charlie and his father there, where was the room for his own thoughts?

He opened a beer with a crack, a pop, a fizz, and stared out over the town below. Lights shone and twinkled from the bars and clubs and apartments, from the life down there. From this distance, they looked like fairy lights, and nothing more important than that.

Maybe even that was giving them too much weight, he mused as he drank from the can. Fairy lights, frothy and light. Charlie had insisted that _this _was the real world, but what did he know? Nothing. This 'real world' had broken his head, old and new personalities fighting for dominance. That was Charlie's fault.

Stupid, useless, dumb, annoying (pretty) Charlie.

As he worked his way through his beer, everything got clearer and clearer. The alcohol chased the cobwebs from his mind and made everything alarmingly obvious to him. And people said alcohol fogged up your head… Hah. That showed what they knew. That was just a big dumb _lie_, pro'lly spread by people like Charlie.

People Like Charlie. There were dozen of things he could mean by that – dozens of bad things, very bad things.

Yawning, he looked at the can in his hand (was it his fourth? Fifth? He'd lost count) and realised he hated it. Even stolen beer tasted rotten in the real-reality.

Well, then. That made what he had to do stunningly clear. He drained his beer and stumbled on unsteady feet back to his (_Sayid's_) car.

* * *

It was a wonder he didn't crash as the car screeched to a stop outside the police station. He'd stopped for more bad beer on the way. This time, the cashier had tried chasing him to get it back. He'd thrown a beer can at her head and she'd just gone away.

Waste of a beer, though.

Mournfully, he pulled two out – one for each hand, right? – and left the car. He didn't bother closing the door behind him. He even left the keys in the ignition. Yeah, anyone who wanted Sayid's bashed up car could have it, if they were brave enough to take it right from under the nose of the police.

He burst in through the glass doors – which, he felt, was a brilliant achievement considering that they were the revolving sort – and weaved his loose way towards the front desk. Once he arrived, he pinged continually at bell there, even thought there was already a constable sitting at the desk, staring at him with an impassive stare. Sawyer looked around the grey room, waiting to make sure that he had everyone's attention. Seeing as there was only one other person there, that wasn't difficult.

"I wan' turn myself in," he said, swaying where he stood.

The man at the desk carefully lifted Sawyer's hand off of the bell. The seemingly ceaseless ringing stopped; he missed the sound. It had helped drown out the thoughts and images and the sober '_you shouldn't be doing this_' that had set up home in his head.

The constable sighed. "What do you want to confess to?" he asked, with the weary seen-it-all-before tone that you need to be in the 'force for a few year before you developed.

Sawyer grinned, and slumped against the desk. "I'm on 'run. _They _broke me outta the hail. Outta the nice place." He looked to one of the beer cans in his hand, and in a rare moment of clarity offered to the constable. It was refused, immediately. Fine. More for him. "Soes I'm gonna make a deal, y'see?"

"I… I think I should contact one of my superiors."

"Yes'okay. Maybe. But I wanna make the deal with _you_."

The policeman blinked and nodded, while shifting on his seat. He'd pressed a button or two behind the desk; Sawyer guessed that meant that reinforcements would be arriving at any second. Good. He'd make his deal with them too and everything could go back to normal.

"Um. Okay. How about you sit down over there - " the man stopped to point out a row of orange plastic chairs in the reception. Sawyer turned and stared at them while the man continued talking. "- and we can discuss this when Inspector Rutherford gets here."

Sawyer grunted his consent and slumped over to the seats. They seemed to be an unnaturally long distance away from the desk. By the time he reached them and flopped down onto one, he needed a drink. He opened a new beer.

Later, with the crack of high-heels, a young-looking woman came out of the back doors and moved towards him. With blonde hair and a carefully made up face, she reminded him a cheerleader – of school, or detention, and first kisses. He shivered and finished his beer. The constable at the desk was still eyeing him suspiciously.

The woman came to a halt and looked down at him. He tried to look up at her, but she was too tall and he was too lazy. He stared at her breasts instead, where they were tightly concealed in her white shirt. He could just make out the shape of her bra beneath the material.

_See? Straight. Absolutely straight. Staring-at-breasts straight. Nothing to worry about._

The woman moved to sit in one of the seat, and she was talking to him. He was sure of it. Her mouth was moving and everything. He just couldn't make out the _words_, and that was a little worrying.

He gave up, but she seemed to be in charge, so he spoke loudly to her. "I wan'you put back in. Me. In. Back in the place. Program. The _Program_. Make it so I don't 'member nothing. 'n I'll tell you stuff. Lots of stuff. 'bout the Sleepers." He was rather proud of himself for remembering the name – between the Program, the Cleaners and the Sleepers, there seemed to be too many 'the's in his life. "Where find 'em and… stuff."

He shrugged, and nearly fell out of his seat.

Inspector Rutherford smiled, but it seemed calculated and cold. "I'm sure we can work something out, Sawyer."

He nodded sleepily, and didn't ask how she knew his name. It didn't matter. They had an _arrangement_.

He was going to be okay.

END


End file.
